She was created for the music. Her earliest memories of childhood revolved around it. She’d sing, dance, play, listen…and it was always the music. Her record player was always spinning around and around, and even when she was just three years old she could conduct Haydn or Mozart, or march to Sousa. Her family introduced her to mountain music, gospel music, and shape-note singing, songs like “This World is Not My Home” or “Angel Band” or “Farther Along”.
There was a piano in her house that whispered to her, called her to its side, begged for her touch, so that, when she answered, there was a sense of coming home. This was a friend that would not fail, would never leave her alone in the dark, would speak kindly to her when there was no one else, and the two of them became one. But there came a day, when she was about seven, when she was forced to introduce her only true friend to a stranger. She played, not knowing that her fingers on the keys were betraying their friendship. A transaction was completed, and the stranger took her soulmate away.
Of course there were others that came into her life over the years, and sometimes left just as abruptly as the first one. But that first betrayal was so painful, so gut-wrenching, that she decided to protect her heart at all costs from ever having to feel such pain and loss again. It was still about the music, but the relationship changed. They were still friends, close friends at that, but her soul had been wounded and refused further exposure. She kept part of herself hidden from the music.
But the music refused to be forgotten. It came to her at night, and again whispered to her, called her to come away, to sing and play and be. And slowly, carefully, guardedly, she began to respond. She had betrayed her first love before she was even old enough to understand what she had done. But now she knew the meaning of betrayal, and her fear was that, in some way, the music that so tenderly called her in dreams would spitefully betray her in the waking world.