And it felt like joy… Posted on October 21st, 2012 by

Hi guys, here is another one I wanted you to see. This is based off my visits to the assisted living homes here in Saint Peter.

And it felt like joy…

The door opens and the scent of old books wafts up to greet me. I walk through the dimly lit hallways to your room, my shoes scuffing the floor. Knocking softly I come in, the door creaks just a bit. You sit quietly by the window, waiting patiently for me. I reach down and touch the shoulder of your old woolen sweater. Some days you look up at me with eyes full of awareness and anticipation; other days your eyes are questioning and ask, “Who is this?” On those days I simply introduce myself as a friend come to talk. Your eyes instantly brighten and a hint of a smile spreads across your lips. I can imagine that you were quite sassy years ago. You tell me about your family and your house between the hills. Your favorite part is always to describe the grand living room; this is where the piano sits. You call her majestic, regal… She is your love and life. You tell me how the smooth, pearl white keys fit to your fingers and how the music leaps and jumps off the page, taking time to twirl around you. Favorite bits entangle in your hair and sink into your skin. Once inside they burn like fire until they reach your soul, settling in and filling you with a quiet hum. There, resting, the notes are at peace, and you the great musician find peace as well.

You reach out for my hand. Through the years your partners have gotten old – they cannot play as well as they used to – but in the end it doesn’t matter. The music is inside of you. You reach out and place my hands between yours. Leaning close you whisper a secret, you are going to share some notes with me. Each time I visit I receive a small strand of music, reaching into the depths of my being. The notes fill me with warmth, and each time, my library grows. Your smile is soft and your eyes sparkle.

Time passes quickly when I am with you. Only minutes seem to go by. When I get up to leave your smile does not break, “Five-thirty next week?” you ask. And five-thirty it is, every Monday, wouldn’t miss it for the world. You laugh a little then, a giggle, like a young girl; small bursts of joy. You may not remember me next week, or the week after that, but just 60 minutes out of my day brings a smile to a face, warmth to ones hands, and music to the heart. Just 60 minutes to spread pure and true joy.

 

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