Chopin Doesn't Live Here Anymore

I am standing in my kitchen
Like a thousand other mornings
Of a lifetime of mornings
In silence.
Deafening silence.

Every morning of my life
Every year of my life
For decades of my life
Was a soundtrack

Brahms and Bach
And Bela Bartok.
And Ludwig.

Schubert and Schumann
And Shostakovich.
And Wolfgang
Amadeus.

They played for me.
Butchering and mastering.
Neither mattered.
Both were grand.
And all was beauty.

Every forgotten sharp
And shaved note
And curse under the breath of frustration
And tears
Were background noise I forgot to take in.
Hours a day
Of an ordinary, extraordinary soundtrack.
And I missed it.

And I miss it.

The music.
Doesn't.
Play.
Anymore.

Louder than it ever was
Is the silence
And the longing
And the ache
In the wake.

Chopin doesn't live here anymore.

© 2017 Laurie Sitterding
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My entry for the February 2017 prompt—Music and Memory—at Poets Online.

Musopen

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