A mourning dove croons it’s peaceful good mornings in the twilight of dawn. 6:40 am- the darkness hasn’t faded quite yet, but the awakening sun has scattered its hues off the atmosphere from below its resting place beneath the horizon. The rage of the Atlantic Ocean can be heard in the distance, with its waves shaking the ground as each one crashes against land. A subtle breeze rustles the branches and leaves of various trees. Beneath the clouds of grey that rest above, an old house made of brick and stone lies situated between two overgrown banyan trees. In the attic of the house, a young boy sits on his carpet, solemnly staring at the upright piano by the window. His tired eyes watch as the shadows of leaves through the reflection of the window flit across the keys- and his mind reminisces the hands of his deceased mother gently pressing each one as if she were caressing the face of a babe. Hands that raised him and could bleed so much colour into a world as bleak and disheveled as the one outside the crumbling house. He remembers her face as she’d play- eyelids closed, lashes brushing her cheekbones and body moving fluidly in tune with every note -remembers how the expressions of those watching would morph from judgemental to perplexed to tranquil. There was no indignation to the self when she’d play, for everyone was one through the language of the human spirit, the soul; music.

Sighing deeply, the young boy straightens and makes his way to the door leading downstairs, but not before taking one more glance at the instrument bathed in light by the window. He finds his father in the kitchen with his head down as he’s caught in a deep slumber with an empty bottle of beer next to his hand. The clock strikes 7:15 as the boy grabs his bag full of books and makes his way to school. The sidewalk leads straight from the decrepit house into the town, where a small highschool plants itself in the center. On any regular day, the settlement would be filled with boisterous activity; yet the abnormal weather brings forth the rushed hustle and seemingly detached atmosphere that is usually masked by the sun. The young boy’s trek is stopped short midway when a middle-aged man seated near a stop sign softly calls out, pleading for any spare change he could get. Beside him are two small children dressed in dirty clothes playing with what is thought to be a riddled ukulele with the fourth string missing. A little girl and boy around eight years of age, completely oblivious to the young boy caught staring as each one takes a turn at strumming and holding down a string, eyes shining and full of laughter at the faces they make to each other.

Despite the glares and scoffs their father is receiving, they carry on with the happiness that the torn and out of tune instrument is giving them. Someone bumps into his shoulder- breaking him from a trance that he was caught in -and he carries on. The young boy’s head is kept down as he listens to the racial slurs and curses being spat out by four individuals arguing in a passing alleyway- listens as the heels and boots of businessmen and women hit the pavement as they walk with cell phones pressed tightly to their ears, acting like they don’t notice the old woman with ragged clothes and a cart full of bags misstep and lose a shoe that nobody bothers to pick up. A melodic sound pricks his ears as he nears a stoplight. On the other side of the crosswalk, an elderly man plays a nearly out of tune upright piano. Eyes closed, head bowed, shoulders hunched. Near him a young man in a suit lowers his phone from his ear, a woman begins to wipe her eyes, a teenager pulls out their cell phone to film it, and an old lady sits on a bench near the piano with her cane in hand looking up at the dreary mass of sky above. The light turns green and the boy continues. As the building of his school comes in sight, the boy’s tightly knit features begin to fall. Already there are the loud guffaws of students running around and distant cries of those in corners or shielded hats. The young boy walks through the large doors encasing the front and keeps his head low. Nonetheless, he is still recognized as classmates purposefully ram into him and laugh as they pass. “Dog,” spits out a brooding boy his age as he runs by. A girl rests her head on an antiquated upright piano with her eyes closed, the frown etched on her forehead slowly dissipating as she applies muted pressure to its keys.

Classes seem to drag as his eyes remain on the clock above the teacher's desk, however, the young boy’s despondency turns with the hands of it. As the last bell for the day rings, he packs the books on his desk into his backpack. The students are dismissed and the boy walks out into the hallway, halting at the outworn piano with a few missing keys. The faces of those around him began to fade away, as all he could see was the lonesome instrument in the middle of the hallway. And as he neared it with the peculiar longing of a freed baby bird to its nest, there was nothing but the sound of his mother’s gift. Finally, there was no hindrance to put in place of the motions his legs were taking. And, in the same movements as his mother, he seated himself and began to play. Head bowed, fingers gliding. Little by little students and teachers gathered, some with their arms crossed, some with their eyes closed, and some watching so intently that they nearly walked forward to the young boy playing the instrument- baffled at how one could create a sound that brought forth so many pupils. A sound that brings out so many similarities within us. Yet, the young boy- unaware of it all -could only feel the fluidity in which his body moved and the contentment of being close to his mother once again.