Chapter One: Sunday Night
What is a story, but a stroke of paint on the canvas of life? This one in particular holds pain and sadness, common colors on life’s palette. This story isn’t meant to teach a lesson, or to convey caution, but to celebrate the indomitable human spirit, even in the darkest of times. Hope.
We find Thomas Clemmons, a music teacher at Benjamin Parker High School, locked outside of his favorite bookstore, five minutes past their closing time.
He walked up to the front door after seeing a shadow pass through a window. “Mrs. Coleman?” He called out. “It’s Thomas!”
A frail old woman appeared and unlocked the door to open it slightly. “Hiya, Thomas! I’m terribly sorry but I’m wrapping up.”
“Oh please, I just need one new songbook for tomorrow, the kids’ll kill me if I have them play something again.
Mrs. Coleman sighed and nodded her head. “Alright then, it’ll have to be quick.”
“That’s fine, thank you so much.”
She pushed open the door and Thomas walked in. “Come on in! Make sure to get something that sticks with them!”
Thomas walked into the store, the tall shelves lining the walls were filled with older, thick books. The aroma of aged paper brought him much comfort, but that’s not what he was interested in.
“Two minutes, no longer, I promise.” He said, moving past Mrs. Coleman in a respectful rush.
The sheet music section was Thomas’ home away from home, he often enjoyed getting new music for his classes and memorizing them.
“Just let me know if you need any help, hon!” She shouted from down the hall.
“Will do, thank you ma'am.” Thomas said almost absentmindedly as he stood across from a deep shelf, packed to the brim with all types of different sheet music. He closed his eyes, held his breath and held out his hand, pointing a finger toward the shelf. “C’mon Grandma, help me. Guide my sword.” He took a few steps closer and poked the shelf.
He opened his eyes to find his finger in between two sheet music pamphlets. He let out a reluctant scoff. “Of course.”
He slide his finger down, cutting himself on a stray piece of paper sticking out in between the two pamphlets. He gripped it with his fingertips and slid it out.
An ancient looking hand-written piece greeted him, as the notes and markings on the music were faded but still able to be read. “Thanks Grandma.” He said with a small smile.
Thomas returned to the front desk to find a shaky Mrs. Coleman carefully marking certain books on a shelf near her.
“Find everything alright, dear?”
“Yes actually, but I didn’t see a price on this sheet, could you help me out?”
Mrs. Coleman stepped away from the shelf and took the sheet from Thomas. “Huh...”
“What is it?”
“Well, I actually don’t recognize it.” She put it down on the desk and began to search for it in the inventory.
Thomas stared down at the sheet, playing the music in his head. A lovely short melodic piece, understanding how this could be used for a funeral that probably celebrated the life of the deceased.
“Well, I can’t seem to find it. Tell you what, how about you play it for me and we’ll call it square?”
“Are you sure? I don’t wanna be taking money out of your-”
“Ah ah, get your butt over there on that bench and we’ll call it square.”
“I believe a butt is round actually.” Thomas said with a smile, walking over to the old dingy piano that sat in the corner of the front room.
He placed the sheet on the piano and began to play.
A few notes in, the deep notes rang through his mind, reminding him of the funeral song that was used for his Grandmother at the time of her passing. Thomas’ grandmother nurtured and encouraged his love for music, especially the prospect of being a music teacher at a young age. He hadn’t even realized his eyes closed mid-way through the piece. He finished with a smile and looked over at Mrs. Coleman. “I think this is a keeper!”
“Ah, so beautiful. Well, have fun with it and don’t laminate it, you want a plastic cover for it instead?”
“No no, I’ll be fine. Thank you again ma'am, I’ll see you next time.” He said, grabbing the sheet and pushing the piano bench back into place.
“Alrighty, we’re all set. You have a great night sweetie.” Mrs. Coleman said. They both stepped out as she began to lock the door.
Thomas walked around the corner of the store toward his car, humming the piece in his hand. He held it up to examine it further.
One word, the title in calligraphy, “Endecha”, by a Yadira Cantu. No year, no other kind of information at all.
“It’s just the music. That’s kind of beautiful in a sad kind of way.” He thought, realizing the notes were as lonely as he was. The music doesn’t repeat, it’s meant to be played once and it ends just as begins.
The drive home wasn’t as monotonous as usual, Thomas was thinking of how to spin this secretive piece of paper to his class and make a lesson out of it. How was he not coming up with anything? His mother was a teacher, and her sister was a teacher, and their mother was a...you get it. He should be able to think of something.
He continued humming in his head, thinking of his grandmother again. Something about this song reminds him of her absence, the worst day of his life was when he lost her. “Maybe this piece shouldn’t be used for the kids.” He thought to himself.
He put the music up on his piano and began to play, closing his eyes and sinking into the melody. Letting it envelope him, he played it for his Grandmother. Feeling the emotion flow from his body into the keys. He practiced the song again and again with small variations. “Thank you again Grandma, this piece is for you." He finished playing and moved his hands to his side, but pain erupted in his fingers. They were sore and red, but that's when he snapped into reality.
He didn’t remember getting home or even walking inside his house. He looked around and saw his living room in total darkness and felt his eyelids become suddenly so heavy. He checked the time, expecting it to be late, it was 3:46am. How could he have not been present for the past few hours? He didn’t even eat a dinner. “What the hell? Oh my goddammit.” He trailed off, angrily mumbling to himself while quickly walking into his room to lay down and hope for enough rest to teach in the morning.
One last time, the evening of his Grandmother's funeral played in his head like a memory his brain would not let go of. It was hot, humid and there wasn't a cloud in sight. As if he needed another reason to hate summer. Her ashes were spread along his grandfather's grave, and there they'd lay for eternity. He missed her more today ever since he found that song. Maybe that was a good thing, but he was too exhausted to keep thinking about it, and began to hum the song as he slowly fell asleep.
A word of warning to those who continue reading this: This story does not inspire hope, it simply celebrates it.
