I'm fine. Shawn's fine. Baby's fine.
Others I love are not so lucky.

Sorrow rends me.

My mind says, "Don't worry. The doctors can fix things, and it'll be okay."

My heart ignores my mind and grieves prematurely for unthinkable possibilities. It's a cycle that drowns me, pulling me into a tunnel of tears, unaware of my surroundings.

Hours spent in front of the television, trying not to think, annoyed at frivolities, irritated by the noise, but afraid of my thoughts if left undistracted.

An old solace, too long ignored, calls me gently, reminding me of its presence. I turn the TV off, walk to the piano, and sit on its bench. After a moment, I open the lid.

I haven't practiced. Songs that once lived inside me are mere fragments of familiarity. I don't want to think. I don't want to work at it. I just want to play.

But there is one song that will always be part of me. Written years ago -- has it been nearly two decades? -- it's one I never need to think about. It's just there.

I place my fingers on the keys, close my eyes, and press those first, soft notes that signal the beginning.

I am aware of the tears running down my cheeks far more than the ivory under my skin, but my fingers keep moving. The song progresses, deepens as the bass fills the ebb and flow under the melody, changes octaves, builds, then suddenly

     stills,

waves becoming delicate ripples that hold all the accumulated tension and power in single, taut notes...
waiting...
hovering....

And they land, energy pulsing from my soul, from my veins, progressions and variations tumbling and turning, dancing along torrents of sound and emotion, shadows and scintillations, pouring from me and filling me until there is no Me,
there is no instrument,
and all of Life's meaning and potential is forever, in this moment, transcendent in a Song.