Writing Prompt

I try to sit tall, to look confident and to seem as though I am not as panicked as an ostrich with its head stuck in the ground. I spot Lilly giving me a thumbs up and ridiculous smile from back stage. The one I return is only half hearted. How poetic the school thought it would be to have the deaf girl who sits by herself at the back of the band class, the one who tries NOT to be noticed, play a solo on her harp at the summer concert in the park. How inspirational. If I could pull it off. I should have never agreed to this. My palms are sweating and my fingers are squeezing around the frame of the harp. My band teacher signs to me that they're going to announce me now and draw the curtains. He seems almost as nervous as me. After all, if I fail, it looks bad for him, too. Then suddenly, the curtains pull back. Too soon, the spotlight trains on me. Too quickly, I am expected to play a tune I cannot even hear. I look out at the crowd, sitting in neat rows, soft rays of light from the setting sun at their backs. I see a few people filming even, their cameras pointed my way. I take a deep breath, closing my eyes. Blocking out everything around me except for the strings of the harp. I can pretend their not even there. I let myself forget the people staring and the intensity of the stage lights. I pluck the first string, letting the tremor thrum in the air, The pitch of the vibration so familiar to me. People may think you need to hear to play music, that a musicians ear is their most important tool. And yet, I don't need any kind of noise to tell exactly what note that is. A sharp. I strum again, fingers barely needing to touch the string for the crisp waves of reverberation to spill from the instrument. My hands reach, back and forth, finding the cords, feeling the pulse each different one plays. I let myself relax, even a little, let myself join with rhythm. Music isn't the same for me as other people, possibly, but I feel its emotion all the same. The intensity of the quick strike the sorrow of a gentle strum, the excitement of a fast pluck, the longing from a light brush. I lean in as the speed of my song quickens, the pitch heightening. I move with the pace, unable to stop, feeling as though a part of the hymn. But it's coming to a close soon. I can feel the climax getting nearer as my fingers travel faster and faster over the strings. It's why I love this piece so much. For however calming a harp seems, this one moves with an unexpected urgency, no room for breath. I can now count the seconds till the end of the performance, the number of strings meant to be played. Every part of me moves in time as I pull at the last few strings. Five, four, three, two, one. I let the last vibration ring out. I rest my hands against the cords to calm them. Then there is nothing. Nothing but my heart pounding in my chest. I don't want to open my eyes, not yet. I feel like going back to where I was, with the intensity of the rhythm and the feel of the song. But eventually, I must brave the crowd. I crack my eyes open, just a little. Then they widen. Everyone is standing. I can feel thunder of their applause on my face and in my feet, see the shock clear in their eyes, the jaws dropped open, the smiles of those greatly impressed. Did I really do so well as to have shocked them so that this much appreciation is necessary? I let out a breath I'd been holding, and stand to take a bow. As I look out at them all, I think, 'I have made something meant only for those with hearing far more beautiful.'

Bare feet rested on the wooden planks that make up the stage. Vibrations of notes flow through them through the toes of the woman above. She plucks her fingers across the harp, feeling the weight of each string as she does, looking the king directly in the eye as she plays every note correctly. He looks impressed, a goblet of wine sitting in his right hand.

His lips mutter the words of appreciation, but the harpist does not acknowledge them, she has no gratitude for him, instead she stares at his ears and imagines her blade brought down upon them, the way he’d ordered his man to bring his blade upon hers.

Her justified thoughts hidden by the beautiful melody her fingers continue to play.

her fingers flew across the keys

the sweet melody dancing in the air

if only, if only she could hear it

then she would dance along

confetti falling as she twirled

all smiles all laughs

though it was silent.

As I look across the jam space, my eyes lock with Tommy behind the kit. Years ago before the accident, I would just wait to hear the four strikes of his drumsticks to count us in. My back turned, and putting all of my trust into the two instruments located on either side of my head. It’s still a strange thing to get used to. Even after all the struggle and doubt of returning to music. But this was my identity before, and I refuse to allow this inability to hear rob me of my passion. So now I will turn around and face the percussion. In a way, this creates a shared moment between myself and Tommy. We lock eyes, smiles begin to creep in, and I visually watch as he still strikes his spikes. One, Two, Three, Four. And like it has always been, we slide into one of our upbeat songs that we have played hundred of times before. Although these days, I don’t need to worry about wearing ear protection to damper the tone and protect my hearing. It has officially been destroyed. I’m fortunate to have put the time and effort into my music when I was younger because it allowed me the chance to practice and find a guitar tone I was happy with… something I could NEVER do now… I even had my amps labeled to the correct settings, in order to make for a quick setup. Maybe my past self knew that this NEW version of myself would grow to NEED those little cheats to allow the music to continue. Who knows. That’s what I like to tell myself anyways.

Mr. Alden is old

Mr. Alden lives in the copper-red bungalow across the street. He has lived there since I was born.

Mr. Alden is tall and skinny with a grey head of hair. My mother told me once it used to be black. Slicked with pomade and smart.

Mr. Alden lives alone. He has for as long as I can remember. No wife and no children who make surprise visits with littles in tow. I learned that he was once married, but lost his wife to sickness. The topic had come up after my mother's death. At her wake. The woman who lived in the house to the left of us said so. Her attempt at comforting father I suppose.

Mr. Alden is mean, rude, and bitter. He spoke to no one and cared for no one. The same neighbor who likened my father to him said so. Said it was good he didn't let himself become rancid with grief like Mr. Alden had.

Mr. Alden owns a beautiful grey grand piano. In the center of his living room. I have never seen it, but the old lady on my street said that he used to play for her and her friends when they were little. She said he stopped playing for the neighborhood children sometime after she turned 30. She said nothing of his late wife.

Today I met the elusive old man who lives in the copper red house. He stood hunched over his mailbox as he struggled with the latch. His long fingers fiddled and tinkered with the object to no avail. So, I decided to help. I ran over to him and greeted, "Good afternoon Mr. Alden. Can I help you with that?" I got no response. The lanky man continued his fight with the latch. 'He couldn't possibly be this rude,' I thought to myself. I tried again.

"Mr. Alden! Let me help you!" This time I rested a gentle hand against his back to gain attention. He jumped and screamed. Clutched unto my sleeve for dear life. "Oh no, I'm sorry to startle you." I rushed to say but he glared at me in response. "Don't sneak up on an old man. Are you trying to kill me?" He screamed and then quickly returned to his big old house, ignoring my words of apology.

Mr. Alden really is rude, I decided then. Then I decided again that maybe he wasn't. Maybe the man was lonely and needed kindness. My ingrained over-optimism, which I got from my mother, convinced me of that. So I baked a cake. A medium-sized one. Round and smothered in white frosting.

I marched to the brown doors of Mr. Alden's house with the cake in hand. A practiced grin plastered on my face. I rang the doorbell. Once, twice and then thrice. Finally, the door swung open. Mr Alden stared at me with confusion at first and then he frowned. The frown belonged on his face. The deep set lines on his forehead and between his brows made sense then. I was not deterred by his frown. After all, I had baked a cake; It would take far greater than a frown to turn me back.

"Good afternoon Mr. Alden. I believe we got off on the wrong foot yesterday and I wanted to apologize for startling you. I baked a cake!" I pushed the baked mound of flour, fat, eggs, and sugar toward him, and his earlier confusion returned. Like he hadn't noticed I was holding a cake.

For a few minutes, he looked from me to the cake and then back again at me. I was convinced then that he would reject my attempts at reconciliation, but he did not. He stepped out from the doorway and stretched a welcoming hand towards the inside of the house.

Mr. Alden is deaf. Completely deaf. I learned that quickly after entering. The old man told me so then he gave me a whiteboard and marker to speak with. He said he'd learned to read lips but with his now failing eyesight, it took too much effort so he preferred to read words.

Mr. Alden was a pianist. Along with his grand piano, he had awards arranged neatly on a showcase to prove it. Apparently, he had been amazing. Several teachers and tutors praised him for his exceptional ear for music. They called him a genius. He was a genius. He described his process to me as him weaving symphonies and melodies to tell a story. Each note was a sentence or paragraph or punctuation. He said that hearing himself play then was like a chef tasting their food as they go. Adding dramatizations and pauses where necessary to play the piece perfectly.

Mr. Alden is a pianist. I told him so after I heard him play. He played perfectly. Expertly tickling and caressing the keys to produce a concussion of musical bliss. Even in old age, He was brilliant. I asked how he played so well without his ears. He said that playing had become like mathematics for him. He followed time signatures religiously and played as methodically as he could. His years of experience helped. After the glasses of well-aged whiskey Mr. Alden had brought out to wash down the sweet taste of cake from our tongues, he was nothing like before. It had not taken much convincing to get him to play and not much either to get him to tell me his story.

Mr Alden became deaf as a result of a severe sinus infection many years ago and after three arduous years of trying to continue his career after his hearing loss, he gave up on music. Because though he could still play, he could no longer compose. That was his true passion.

It began for him at a young age, he felt the energy and vibration of the world around him. His mom humming nursery rhymes or her favorite tune. He picked up toys and made as much noise as he could before his mom finally got him into piano lesson. Randall felt there on stage, finally in the light. He could feel every note through the buzzing of the frets as his fingers dance along the muted sounds. Through his adversity he’s made it all thanks to his mom. Now kids like Randall know they have a place in the future of music and entertainment.

As a young girl Penny had hearing problems and was told at a young age that by here high school years she would be completely deaf, but this didn’t stop her from learning piano as even though she could hear very little from a young age she still loved what little she could hear from her Fathers grand piano. She learned at a young age how to play it from her father and ever since then she would spend countless hours everyday sitting there in their living room playing the white and black keys even though as she got older she could no longer hear herself play, but that didn’t stop her. Even though Penny had lost her hearing she could still feel the keys and the vibration of each key as it played and remembered how each one sounded, they way the keys felt on her fingertips not only made her happy but reminded her of the days when her father had helped her learn each key and what songs they were played for. Penny loved the piano and she was never going to stop playing it, she may have lost her hearing but she did not lose her heart.

To Courtney music had always been her lullaby to sleep and alarm to get up. She loved the way music would gracefully sway and spin almost like a person, just more bearable. At age 10 Courtney decided she wanted to take piano lessons and follow in her mother’s footsteps. She practiced every day all day, which is why it didn’t come as a shock to anyone when her mother gifted her beloved piano, even though she didn’t have the money for it. Later In life during Courtney’s fourties’ she began to have trouble hearing. By the time she reached fifty she was completely deaf. That didint stop Courtney though. Maybe not as good as when she was younger. But still amazing. She could feel the vibrations and even play with her eyes closed.

The morning starts off as any other the light tickles my eyes awake as my toes and fingers vibrate with life. I look outside and immediately my eyes are filled with the colors of the day awaiting for me. My routine begins with coffee as any day should, then is proceeded with getting dressed and fixing my hair. It is true what is said about the sense when one is incapable of working the rest see the world for you or in my case hear. My name is Amelia I work at a school as a math teacher. If I could thought I’d sneek into the band room all day, I love music and am a professional pianist, but due to my condition the school would not hire me as a music teacher so I applied as a math teacher with my degree. At 12 when all the teachers are eating lunch i sneak into the band room and play. I play till my heart floods with the rhythm and vibrations. My toes tingle with every key and are waiting in anticipation for the next key to hit. I play with my shoes off you see it allows me to feel the vibrations of the piano in order to see if I’m off key or not. It is a curious thing for me as well trying to image what such music sounds like. Is it a soft noice that makes you want to drift to sleep or maybe it is as hard as the vibrations that makes you want to get up and dance. One day I hope to know but for now I will just let me toes explore it for me.

Art is powerful. It transcends cultures, languages, and race. It cuts across humanity to build a bridge, where we can all meet and collectively admire something beautiful. It is a neutral ground, where everyone can agree to meditate in peace. When I look at the man on the metro, playing music with a feverish joy, I can’t help but think of the beauty in art. I also can’t help but be reminded of the beauty in the world, and simultaneously its injustices.

My world is filled with brilliant colors, shapes and landscapes. My life is permeating with fragrant aromas, spices and scents. My world is saturated in interesting textures and consistencies. My existence is overflowing with joy, dancing, and love. I also live in silence.

I experience every sensation available to me at its fullest capacity. I live a complete life, and I have never before wished to change a thing about it. However, for some reason, many people see me as incomplete, because I am deaf. I have never seen myself this way. However, lately I have ached for the ability to hear in a way I have never felt before. My turmoil can be fully attributed to the man on the metro.

I do not know this mans name, and I have no way to ask him, though I wish I did. He is reliably stationed at the metro stop I use to get home, and I can’t seem to shake my fascination with him. His appearance in itself warrants attention, as he is very good looking. He dresses sharply, often in a suit, with his dark hair neatly styled. Depending on how bright the day is, his ensemble will sometimes be complete with dark sun glasses. Although he is very handsome, his appearance is not the source of my fascination.

He is always playing music, and never with the same instrument he had the day prior. This interested me immediately once I noticed it, making me wonder how many instruments he owns and how many more he might know how to play. Although this observation intrigued me, it’s also not the reason I can’t seem to shake the Metro Man from my mind.

The reason I can’t stop thinking about him, the basis for my aching heart and newfound discomfort with my deafness, is the way everyone who passes the Metro Man, lights up with joy. I can see how powerful his music is. It is written clearly on the faces and expressions of those who pass him in the metro. He turns mundane, solemn expressions, into smiles of joy. Those who pass by him, begin tapping their feet, swaying their hips and clapping their hands; his music brought to life. He creates a contagious energy in the melodies he shares. I’ve never wanted to experience something so badly.

I think my fascination is also fueled by the fact that I have no way of meeting this man, who has slowly, everyday captured my interest. I am extremely observant, so I realized immediately the barrier keeping me from meeting him. The sheet music in front of him is raised with Braille, a cane propped up against the wall beside him, and a well trained golden retriever sits next to him with a harness noting his purpose. I live in a world of silence, and the Metro Man lives in a world of darkness.

Despite the glaring difference keeping us apart, I imagine that the Metro Man and I are quite similar. His passion for his music is evident, and it mirrors my own passion for my art. The way his body relaxes and his expression grows distance as he encompasses himself in his music, is a physical manifestation of the way I feel when I am painting or drawing. And the joy he sparks in the people on the metro, mimics the reason I share my art with others. I want to ignite happiness, and I imagine the man on the metro does too.

Everyday I pass him, and my longing to meet him increases steadily. I wrack my brain, wondering if there could be a way for me to float a raft over to the island of his separate world. There must be a way for me to shatter this barrier between us. Eventually, my eyes wander again to his Braille sheet music, and an idea blooms in my mind.

I begin studying to prepare for the plan I have created. I purchase the necessary materials, and enroll in a class to take. After an excruciating long time of preparing, I finally have my message drafted, and I feel ready to set my plan in motion.

It’s a dull and cloudy day, when I finally muster the courage to approach the Metro Man. His dark sunglasses are absent, and when I get close to him, I can see that his eyes are a brilliant blue color. I take a few steps closer to him. He is putting his guitar back in its case, packing up for the day. I can tell by the expression on his face that he has heard my approach. He smiles at me, pinning my location with skilled accuracy. I watch his mouth move and I read his lips. He has said hello to me in a friendly greeting. Before I lose my nerve, I gently place my Braille message in his hands. I watch his face contort briefly in confusion before his fingers move over the letter in a skilled flurry. His face slightly scrunches in concentration as he deciphers my message.

Once he finishes reading, his expression turns to understanding. I hold my breath, waiting for his reply. I have told him in my message that I can read lips, so he can reply verbally. I am greatly taken aback when he hands me the Braille pad and proceeds to respond to my letter in sign language. His response lights my heart with joy. When he ends by asking me a question, I respond by nodding my head before I remember that he can’t see me. I instead articulate my response in Braille. He smiles when he sees I have agreed. With delicate fingers he touches the features of my face, ‘seeing’ me in his own way. When he is done, he signs back to me: “Beautiful.”

Hope warms my soul. With this slow, patient conversation, we have chipped away the barrier between us. A deaf girl and a blind man find a space to exist together. Immediately we bond over our immense similarities, and our love for art.

We continue to talk like this eveyday, and eventually our relationship becomes unconditional friendship. He shares more of his music with me, and I share my art with him. We can’t experience the others gift in the traditional way, but I can confidently tell him how I sense his powerful music through the reactions I see in others, and he sincerely informs me he hears the beauty of my art in the praise of those who see it. We do not need an interpreter, we just experience each other in a different way.

Overtime, our relationship transforms into something indestructible and eternal. We succeed in building something far stronger than the obstacles between us. The Metro Man and I, fall in love. More importantly, we rest in love. We exist in love every moment, marinating in it, and seek ways to share our wealth in it with the the world.