THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED
“Eddie, this is the sheriff.” The officer pounded on the front door. “You’re sister’s here to check on you.” A few more sharp raps on the door. “You alright?”
We
waited. Silence. No response.
The sheriff’s urgent voice shouted, “We’re coming in!” Then his booted foot struck the door jamb leaving
it in splinters as the door
crashed to the floor.
The sheriff pulled his arm and sleeve over his
mouth and nose. “Stay outside, ma’am.”
I complied; he entered the house.
Even before the sheriff confirmed
my suspicions, I knew Eddie was dead.
After his body was removed, I remained
behind—riffling through Eddie’s belongings hoping to make sense of his final
days. I found piles of unpaid hospital bills,
unopened Christmas cards, and unused bottles of heart and depression
medication. Hidden deep within some
papers on his night stand I discovered a note penned in his handwriting that
read I sometimes wonder if the world
would be a better place without me. Why
do I continue this existence? This façade? This pain?”
Numb, I wandered
into Eddie’s music room. His drums stood
motionless patiently expecting his return while his now silent piano quietly waited
for his fingers to glide across its keys.
Scattered throughout the room were countless original scores of sheet
music desperately hoping to be heard. I crumbled
to the floor clasping his handwritten note and sheet music close to my
heart.
Oh, Eddie! Why did
you hide your talent inside this room? Did
you fear rejection? vulnerability? success?
My shoulders tightened. I gasped. But aren’t I just like you? Haven’t I hidden my talent and ignored the
whispers of creativity I heard as a 12-year old that told me to be a writer? Haven’t I fallen victim to the same trap?
Now, I wish I
could tell you that you were wrong. The
world isn’t a better place without you!
Even though your music died with you, your death helped me realize that the
world needed your hidden songs, my hidden words, and our hidden voices.”
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