The Mountain

Faith sits and turns and listens to the wind lift along piano strings. From first to last, fourth to fifth, all or none, or one. Like steam from her tea the notes rise in lines of key and color twisting weightless in the air. And for a moment she is drawn into the aural and aromatic storm, lemon from tea, pine from walls, fireplace and piano shimmering in chromatic dissonance. Taken back to a time and place where brushstrokes created tension, emotion, and perspective, she falls into paint and looks down along lines where once was meets what is.

In that instance she is a mountain cradling two young lovers, cupping her hands to hold the waters they sit by. Her eyes become setting sun, her breath like wind and wishes to draw the two together. And yet, try as she might to change her view and reflect upon their faces, the faint remembered joy is washed over in shadow as the wind and room which drew her there pull her back once more.

Gripping the arms of her rocking chair, Faith traces the intricate valleys carved by her father’s hands, smoothed over by time and the oils of her fingers. The rocking chair moans in support as she rises, swaying as she walks to the window and breathes a heavy sigh. In the condensation she draws her index finger along the canyon rim, the last line of light and first shadows rise. Her own eyes stare back in reflection. And through the milky pane Faith watches the frozen mist pass through the aspen leaves as sky turns red and sun sets behind the cottage.

“Hello, old friend.”

The wind and mist rise.

“No, no. Don’t get excited.”

Air calls through rafters, floorboards, and strings.

“Shh... If you quiet down I’ll sing for you.”

In the stillness that follows there is only the sound of her breathing, soft and rhythmic, and the crackle of fire that jumps and glows like dusk. “Well then,” she whispers, moving to the piano.

In an act of spontaneity Faith spins beside the old upright, giddy and ungraceful, nearly stumbling over the stool. Balancing herself with a hand upon the key guard she laughs. Then sitting down upon the stool she attempts composure as images of her foolishness replay and prompt more giggling.

The wind starts.

“Okay,” she says. “Hold your horses.”

Brushing her thin nightgown, Faith lifts the key guard and readies herself to play. The ivory keys and brass pedals are cold to the shock of her fingers and the balls of her bare feet. But Faith is not easily dissuaded.

With her left hand she begins the piece, a broken arpeggio walking the rhythm, setting the tone. She hums to the key and warms her voice while peering outside for inspiration. The land is steeped in shadow, and the light from the fire fades into pines and aspens beyond her window. She recalls things that have been lost along the way, the pieces that fall in stride, unnoticed but recalled later, the faces and names that lay in the wake of our path.

Then with her right hand she sweeps into the chords, complementing with counter rhythm and familiarity of the space, the keys, the mahogany that as a child she would look into for long passing moments, searching for patterns amidst the dark wood grain. Sound fills the room, amplifying the warmth as it reflects and soaks into wooden walls, the light of the fireplace dancing, the rocking chair unmoving. And with a voice that projects much larger than her tiny frame suggests, she begins to sing.

I’ll become like rain
and wash your broken bones
to find that which I’ve lost
the ash
the space
we shared
you made

Soon you’ll call my name
still written on the stones
though hid beneath a storm
the last
the place
we shared
you made

Striking keys she brings the piece into its chorus, staccato beats like marching drums, as the room quakes and her voice trembles. Faith closes her eyes to the room, the window, the wind and the fire. And allows the chorus to speak through her.

Sound, the trumpets brightly
Watch, the storm that’s growing
Feel, the hour is coming
when I’ll lay my hand upon your
Face, the winds I’m sending
Home, the place you made we
Love
that burns
that falls
and fell
into
our
Hearts, the place you made we

The last word is lost in a cacophony of sound as Faith whispers beneath the final chord and wind erupts from beneath her feet and overhead, teasing the flames and the hem of her gown, threatening to draw up the floorboards, overturn the rocking chair, and cast the roof into the night. And Faith, wrapped in her delightful whirlwind, laughs and smiles, taking a bow before her imagined audience, and is carried away in the joy of it all, beyond the canyon rim, through the golden aspen leaves and evergreen pines, over the rivers and plains and forests, into the heart and moment of a young girl placing a timid finger upon a piano key.