She didn’t answer my knock, so I let myself in as quietly as I could. She got headaches a lot. Every day, they became more and more frequent. I wanted to be quiet, so I didn’t make it worse.
“Momma?” I called out softly. When she didn’t answer, I tiptoed quietly to her.
I whispered her name one more time. When she didn’t stir, I leaned over, kissing her cheek, noticing how cold she was, so I pulled her covers over her shoulder before going outside to play.
I was a child with no real concept of time. What child notices such things? Truthfully, though, even at twenty-nine, my perception of time is still skewed. I’ve never told anyone,but sometimes I lose hours and even days.
When my father, brother, and sister walked through the door while I sat at the piano, I knew everything was wrong.
After my ten minutes outside, I continued my work until I was finished. Then I sat at the piano. At the time, I didn’t realize that I’d spent over two hours at those keys, lost in every note and chord as the melody wove itself around me. I was so focused on the song—the first song I ever composed—I didn’t realize any time passed at all.
“Where’s mom, Maddox?” my dad asked as he removed his suit jacket.
I blinked,the dread pooling deep in my belly. “She took a nap.” It came out as a whisper as I felt the blood drain from my face.
Something was wrong. I knew it was. If I hadn’t been so consumed, I would’ve realized sooner. I knew she wasn’t feeling well, but I let my own interest take over.
On bated breath, I waited. It wasn’t a long wait, but the moment I heard my father’s screams, I knew everything was wrong.
“Amanda!” I heard him cry out. His tone made me shiver, and my tummy flipped.
He ran downstairs, carrying Momma with tears running down his face. I froze completely, not understanding what was happening, but I knew it was bad. It’s so bad.
“Chris,” he yelled out when he spotted him in the kitchen. “Call nine-one-one!”
“Wh – what do I tell them?” he asked Dad with a stutter.
“Tell them she’s not breathing,” he yelled.
Tears began to fall down my face. Everything around me felt like it was in fast forward and slow motion all at once. My heart hurt, and my head swam with so much grief. But not just my own. I could feel Callie’s fear, Chris’s panic, and my father’s utter devastation. The weight was so unbearable that I slid off the piano bench to my knees on the floor.
The room spun. Everything was too much. I couldn’t breathe.
A hand on my back soothed me. I looked to see Callie’s pale blue eyes, the exact shade of Momma’s, staring back at me. Unshed tears filled her eyes.
Somehow, with a heavy breath, I pulled my four-year-old sister into my arms in an attempt to console her. She sobbed softly in my arms while my tears continued to fall.
Eventually, she fell asleep. Chris took her from me and carried her upstairs.
My father knelt in front of me, taking in the river of tears flowing down my face. He wiped them away with his thumbs as he grips my face. “Maddox, stop crying,” he orders, not harshly but firmly.
I look up through tear-stainedlashes to my father’s broken face. “I—I’m s—sorry,” I sobbed. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Stop crying, son. You’re a Masters. We can’t afford to show weakness.”
“I can’t.”
He gripped my shoulder with a hard shake. “Stop, right now. Stop your crying. Your mother is gone. Your tears will not bring her back. Be strong like she would want.”
I wiped my face with the hem of my shirt. One last shuddering breathescaped me as I forced my tears to stop.
You’d think that day would’ve turned me off of music. Maybe for some,it would’ve been easier to walk away. For me—I immersed myself even further. It became my obsession.
Two weeks after my mom died, I performed at the River City Orchestra. I played the song I was working on the day she died. Full intricate weavings in a major second descending interval. I started that song for her—for my mom. I also finished it for her, then played it for five thousand rich, influential men and women gathered together for a charity performance she had organized.
But I didn’t play for them. I played for her.
Tears seldom cameafter she died. Instead, I learned to let the music be my tears.
