The Great Symphony

     With home being such an uncertain place, the boy spent much of his youth at his grandparent’s house. 

     The boy loved his grandmother deeply. 

     Lying out on the back lawn together, they would peer up through the great willow trees towards the mountainous clouds above. Some days those mountains would freeze as if posing for some cosmic picture. And the longer they watched those mountains the more they would shrink and look less like clouds and more like dirty eraser marks, as if God continued to refine and perfect his panorama. 

     “That one looks like a pig,” the boy said. “No...a mouse.”

     “Which one?” Grandma asked. 

     “That one. Right there,” the boy responded, pointing directly above, one eye closed. They lay side by side, referencing the sun, as the passing clouds lay scattered before the blue canopy of space. Nearby, a cat lay on its back in the rose garden, shifting from right to left, then left to right, receiving the sun’s breath. The boy gave a satisfied smile as his grandmother ruffled his dirty blonde hair.

     Daily, the boy’s grandmother would pick him up from school and take the boy to her house. His grandfather often played operas and symphonies on the house speakers. The boy’s grandmother would stand in the middle of the kitchen as the boy sat nearby, eating his afternoon snack. She would tap the end of her mixing bowl with a spoon, lift it into the air, and move her arms back and forth as if conducting the great symphony playing throughout the house.

     “I always wanted to learn to read and write music. I just never had time raising five kids.” His grandmother’s movement slowly became more exaggerated with her now spinning and dancing in circles as she conducted her symphony of kitchenware. 

     Most days passed as such. If they were not finding shapes in the clouds or conducting the dishware then the boy and his grandmother would be out tending the garden, working through the boy’s homework, or practicing his piano. His grandmother smiled and conducted an invisible symphony around the boy as he played. The boy was comforted, and the boy felt safe. 

     The boy stretched taller and outgrew his baseball caps. He spent less time at his grandparent’s house, but saw his grandmother just the same. She came to his baseball games and cheered loudly from the stands. She brought his family home cooked dinners of turkey and mashed potatoes. She attended his band’s concerts and stood in the far back at a sonically safe distance. Even amongst the darkness and bright lights on the stage, the boy could see her at the back, waving her arms back and forth, conducting his band. 

     Soon, the boy’s grandfather retired and his grandparents moved across state. But the boy was too busy with his studies and music to notice a difference. It was only when he finally visited his grandmother and the lines on her face stretched longer than he remembered that he noticed something was off.

     “Grandma forgot my name for a minute today,” the boy told his mother. 

     “She has been forgetting a lot of things lately,” his mother replied. “It comes with age.” 

     The boy didn’t like it and spent all afternoon with his grandmother in the garden talking about his time as a boy with her. She laughed at funny jokes the boy told and sang a little song she remembered as a girl. The wind whistled along as it blew through the singing trees.

     The boy outgrew other baseball caps and learned to play new instruments. His bedroom was littered with posters of famous composers and rock bands. On the day of his graduation, the boy walked across the stage and looked out over the crowd. His mother and sister beamed up at him from the third row. His father was there too, in the fifth row. But his grandmother was nowhere to be seen. The journey would be too hard on her. 

     The boy visited his grandmother a few weeks later. She hugged him tightly when they arrived and examined his face. “You are just so big now. Where is that little boy I used to watch?” she said to him. It relieved the boy to be so near his grandmother. His visit was very enjoyable aside from the few brief minutes where she mistook the boy for one of his grandfather’s best friends growing up.

     “I am sure that was a bit strange,” his grandfather said to the boy. “Though I do admit that you look a lot like him.” His grandfather was more present these days. He was there to help his grandmother walk from room to room and answer her questions gently, which were often the same question asked multiple times. 

     “I have lived a good life,” she kept repeating. “I wouldn’t change it for the world. Have you had dinner yet?”

     “We just ate, Grandma,” the boy replied. 

     “Oh. What did we have?”

     “Turkey and mashed potatoes.”

     The boy’s grandmother paused and her eyes narrowed as she searched for the memory. “That’s right,” she said quietly. “I forgot.”

     It was as if the boy’s family tree was slowly disappearing from the roots up. Where there was once a strong trunk diverting into many branches, now only a few leaves hung tightly. What would happen when there was no trunk at all?

     The boy’s grandmother could no longer speak about their time together when the boy was young. She rarely spoke even in the boy’s presence now. When he was away at college, the boy would often put on classical music and lie on his dorm room bed. He let the music swirl in his ears and pictured his grandmother tapping the edge of the mixing bowl, leading the dishware in a great symphony. The boy was comforted, and the boy felt safe. 

     His grandmother’s birthday was fast approaching and a trip was planned a few months out. The boy now lived in a new home with his wife, a woman he’d met after college. The boy had plans for a grand birthday present. He spent many hours in his garage working out the details to get his gift just right.

     One day, the boy’s phone rang. It was his mother. Within a matter of moments it was clear that something was not right. He did not remember much of their conversation, but he remembered feeling a great change inside of him. The boy hung up the phone and stood silently for what felt like an eternity. With his head full of fog, the boy dug through some old boxes and found a picture of his grandmother taken by his grandfather when she was no older than he was now. In it, she was seated upon a wooden table, her arms wrapped around her knees as she glanced into the camera with a youthfulness the boy had almost forgotten was once there. He framed it and set it on the mantelpiece. 

     A memorial service was held a few days later. The boy decided that this would be the perfect time to give his grandmother her gift. Beautiful words were spoken by his mother, grandfather, and other family members. 

     It was finally his turn. The boy stood. Several of his friends followed. They sat in a half circle upon the stage and picked up their instruments. They rearranged their sheet music: a special piece of music that the boy had written just for his grandmother. The boy stood upon the stage and looked out at the crowd, at his grandfather, his mother, his pregnant wife bearing a child that would create a new family tree with new memories. He turned his head to the giant windows of the chapel and noticed the passing clouds. The boy was comforted, and the boy felt safe. 

     He turned and faced his friends. Then tapped his music stand, raised his wand, and began.