If I would move the mountains

Part the seas

Claw through the earth

Leave no burning coal in hell unturned

You would complain about my calloused hands

I’ve always loved music

The sound fills the heart of my mind

Yet the feeling of it under my fingertips bruises my body

Notes pry their way in and wrap around my bones like a predatory snake

It leaves the impression of a warm hug

But tears me apart at the seams

Quick sixteenth notes sting at my hands like vicious wasps

While whole notes squeeze my finger like a ring forced on centuries prior

My beloved cello wails in sympathy

I comfort it with soft strokes of hair

It calms to hum its song of sorrow as I ache

I could never bare leave it silenced

So I dig my gave for the night

The knots in my hands only settle at the 3rd measure’s quarter rest

And I watched. I watched, mesmerized, as she writhed across the gray plains of the sky. Her movements were sharp, yet graceful and welcoming. She was the most elegant force I’d ever been granted the pleasure of witnessing, torching the eyes of bystanders with her beauty. The long, flowing train of her dress encapsulated the attention of millions as she danced over the globe. She pranced through the woods, her footsteps leaving her mark on the world. Her leap from the earth was so perfectly executed that some would swear she had flown into the trees, but her method of getting there was long forgotten after she began climbing. She swung around the trees, wrapping her delicate hands around the branches as she reached higher. She finally found herself at the peak of the world and sprung up from the treetops in hopes of brushing the sun. But the sun would never get the chance to reward her efforts, as humans have never accepted the truth of beauty. The envy building within the people rained down on her, drenching her marvelous dress. She never liked the water; it made her shiver in a way the sun cannot heal. She flinched as the world’s anger suffocated her, bringing her to the ground. She pleaded with the people to let her dance once more, but jealousy is a flame that cannot be blown out. Her dress was reduced to less than tatters, the charred trees being the only proof of her performance. And I watched. I watched as she was wilted into a shadow of the dancer that she once was.

The room had to've turned at least seven shades brighter as I put it on. The sweater was so simple- a thrifted piece, a bit on the larger side, and off-white with blue floral accents near the wrists; at least it appeared simple to anyone else, but to me it was absolutely extravagant. The delicate ultramarine flowers littered the sleeves like fallen stars; the pattern almost mimicking that of the teacups sitting unused in my grandmother's China cabinet. The sleeves weren't itchy and fell right where my palm met my wrist. It never fell apart in the wash, there were no tags, and it was just cool enough to wear in Summer while also being just warm enough to wear through Winter. This sweater had been with me longer than most of my friends, having sat with me through barbeques, parties, midnight crying sessions, all nine hours of my third cousin's wedding, and now on this rainy afternoon in May. As strange as it was to think about, my life story lived woven in this little Goodwill sweater and I don't think I'd have it any other way.