After Aunt Ida died, Kina lies awake longing to hear her play once more. Until one night, she does…

Auntie Ida played the piano without hands. At that time when the moon is highest in the sky, Kina would wake to the sound of Chopin or Lizt. Most often, though, it was Debussy. Auntie Ida had always relished in the wild and nonsensical in life. Why would her tastes have changed?

She seemed to like the moon. The fuller it was, the more frequently she visited, played louder and longer. Kina had learned about baby turtles in school. She imagined Auntie Ida had stumbled headlong into death in that car crash only to wake up inside an egg. Upon smashing her way out, she found herself on a beach, stretching out endlessly in both directions, the moon her only guide. And, sometimes, if she was lucky, it led Auntie back to her.

Kina had never been frightened, only nervous. Aunt Ida had always been so fabulous- polished nails, wild obsidian curls, and dragonfly earrings. At first, Kina felt a bit underdressed in her old nightgown and braids. Now, though, she simply grabbed the picture she had drawn in school and tiptoed downstairs sleepily. She took extra care to be stealthy outside of Vovo’s room. Her grandmother could never hear the music, even with her hearing aids in. Kina had gotten more than one spanking for falling asleep in the music room.

Ivory keys rose and fell of their own accord, like the tumbling sea outside. “Reverie” was the song of choice tonight. Kina reached for the porch doors and opened them, letting in the salty breeze. “Some fresh air for you, Auntie.” Kina yawned. “S’cramped in here.”

She lifted the polished, mahogany lid of the piano, and the music stopped expectantly. When she placed the drawing inside and closed the lid, there was a contemplative silence. Then the music began again, slow and stilted at first, like an engine warming up.

Kina sat down on the carpet and scooted underneath the piano. This was the best place to listen. The music came from all around her here. Swaddled her, and filled her up, like warm soup. Her bones vibrated pleasantly to the joyful notes of “Arabesque”. Kina yawned again, a big bear yawn, shut her eyes, and waited for what Auntie Ida had to show her.

Colors came first. Browns and reds and blues. Gradually, as the music seeped into her skin, the colors took shape. The sea, always the sea. A mouth twisted in malice. Blood, the stuff of life not death. The fluorescent ceiling light of a hospital. A floor board with wine stain. All these things Kina had seen before. But this time… something small, gold, and shimmering. A key.

She woke the next morning before Vovo, thank goodness. She knew where she had seen the key before, snuck into her Father’s old office, opened the bottom left drawer. There it was, her dream made real. Suddenly, sound erupted from the music room. Kina nearly jumped out of her skin. Auntie Ida never stayed past dawn. Yet here she was, holding on. The music was her own, too, not Debussy or Chopin but only Ida. The notes weaved themselves into string, wrapped gently around Kina’s wrists, her fingers. Without thinking, without knowing why, Kina lifted up the old persian rug and found the floorboard. She pried it up out of its floor, wood splintered, nails clattered to the floor. The strings’ strength, not hers. 

There, nestled in a hollow space beneath the floor, was a tin lockbox. The strings loosened. The music from the other room lost its fervor, so quiet now Kina could barely hear it. When she lifted the box out of the floor and unlocked it, sounded out the names on the birth certificate inside, she did not cry. She watched the sun’s slow crawl across her father’s library, and felt strangely as if the light were coming from her. From right between her lungs.

When Vovo found her grandaughter underneath the piano again the next morning, she was ready to give another smack. But then she saw the papers clutched to her chest. She went into the study, saw the floor ripped apart. Kina woke for the last time that morning to the sound of her grandmother’s weeping.

They never spoke of it after this. At least, not until little Kina was much older. But she was never scolded for falling asleep in the music room again. After all, who in their right mind would keep a daughter her mother?

Process

This was a piece I completed for the Magical Realism course on the Explore Tour journey. This was by far my favorite course and I had so much fun writing this! The prompt was: Write a one page story that includes one of the following elements to anchor your narrative: food infused with emotion that affects those who consume it, a pet with supernatural abilities, a religious myth that becomes real, a physical manifestation of social fears, or a love so strong that it transcends death. How does this magical element shape the lives of your characters, and what deeper truths does it reveal about their world?

The last example, “a love that transcends death”, really stuck with me. I began to think of what could compare to sensing the presence of a loved one passed. The closest thing I could think of was feeling music. I thought, particularly of the feeling of lying under the piano when someone is playing it, and the music seems to come from all around you. It may even seem to come from somewhere deep in your bones. So I began writing with this in mind.