The Maestro

With thin body, frail bones,

She cracks with every move she makes

Like a drum counting off the beat.

She composes requiems of silence

And hidden tears, and she plays them

Over and over again

The way she used to play the piano,

Fingers scuttling along the keys

Before they failed to perform.

She writes scores of whispers and averted eyes,

A bridge connecting to the

Chorus of how-are-yous that

Provide a rhythmic beat to her daily life.

Vague explanations of how her body is killing itself

Are misplaced notes that

Throw the whole thing off,

An unplanned dissonance.

Her smile seems strained,

Like the strings on a guitar

That had been pulled too tight.

Her laugh echoes like an accidental

Note played half a pitch

Above what it should be.

Her eyes are muted

Trumpets, banned from playing

To their fullest potential.

Her voice is dry, coming out in rasps

Like a snare drum hit

At absolute random.

Her mother’s worried eyes are the

Clarinets warming up for their

Eventual funeral march.

Her father’s encouraging smile

Is the background piccolo

That is barely heard but

Always there.

At night, when she is alone

With the music of the life that

Is fading away from her,

A slow but noticeable decrescendo,

She revels in the sounds she knows

By heart, and even though it hurts,

She always wanted to write

A symphony.