The Best Remedy

Don’t you just love music? Everyone loves music, even though they may deny it, which they would be crazy to do. Even if someone doesn’t like a certain genre of music, they like another. Maybe they like all music, or just one song, but they still like music. Maybe they loved music as a young kid but didn’t enjoy it as an adult, but came back to loving it when they were old. But they still loved music at one point. 

You know what else many people love? Making their own sound of music. Making a song or piece unique. Maybe even making a completely original one. It’s just the way humans were made. To love music. Except for one. 

A 16 year old female by the name of Peggy hated music. No, despised it. Everything about the woman was a mystery. Her middle name, why she hated music, even her favorite color. The only thing we know is this: All she can remember, from the time she was born, was pain and suffering coming from music. Even that is mysterious and broad. 

Well, it is my job to help her. 

 I remember Peggy, especially her young child. The girl was strangely mature, even when she was as old as five. Something in her childhood caused her to grow up faster than anyone else. The sight of the young girl sitting in the corner reading a book instead of playing with her friends, with me, made me sad. 

You see, I am an extra in the story of her life. I never wanted to be. I guess, if she wrote her own story of her life, she would tell you, I was the one annoying kid that would constantly try to be friends, even though she said no multiple times. I’m sure you have encountered that kid in your lifetime. Yes, to her, that is me. Eventually after months of asking, she said yes, I will be your friend. That made me happy. Except she never talked to me again. She just sat in the corner reading her book. That made me mad. 

Remember how I said she grew up too fast? Yes, well so did I. Certain issues as a child that caused me to have to become an adult before becoming even a ten year old. A few years after I “friended” her, I grew up too. I felt her pain, just not the same pain. I understood her sitting in a corner, just reading. So one day after I grew up, I saw her reading in the corner and sat in the other and read a book too. She caught my eye and looked at me for a moment before going back to her book. 

This went on for years, throughout all grades of school. Around 8th grade, she approached me. 

“You are Allegra right?” She asked, face in slight disgust at my name. I frowned. 

“Indeed I am,” I answered back.

“Care to tell me why you don’t like my name?” I asked. She hesitated. 

“I hate anything music related. I hate music. I despise everything about it. All it does is bring me pain and suffering,” she said with venom in her voice. Her words hit me like a brick. 

“Oh, interesting. Maybe I can change that,” I said. She shook her head. 

“No. You will never mention music in front of me. I ever want to hear it at all. I’m sorry,” she said firmly. 

“I understand. If you would like you may call me Ally if it makes you more comfortable,” I said. She nodded, sat next to me and read her book, me doing the same. 

We were friends for the rest of middle school andsomeof highschool. If you could even call us that. We would exchange the ocasion words, but never a full conversation. I realized that we were never meant to be friends. 

Let me explain. Throughout my whole life, my memory is just filled with music. The thing she despised and the thing that kept me going, that kept me alive. The thing I am listening to as I am writing this down. I was very conflicted with our relationship.

Then one day I realized something. I needed to help her learn to love music. Everyone I know is happy because of it. 

I created a plan to help her. 

1. Find out why she doesn’t like music. 
2. Help her learn that it is key in life
3. Teach her to play an instrument and create a sound that she loves

To follow my plan, one day when she sat next to me, I asked her a question. 

“Why do you hate music?” I asked. She winced at the word ‘music.’

“You really want to know?” She asked, closing her book. I nodded confidently.

“When I was 4 my mother died to the sound of music. She was sick and in bed listening to music and then died. Music was her way of passing. Then when I was 6 my father had music on when a bullet shot through our window and into his head. A year later, in an orphanage, I was abused to the beat of music. I was abused to the sound of music until I was 13. I have despised it my whole life,” she said bitterly. I had a thought. 

“What type of music?” I asked. 

“Something called pop,” she recalled. I smiled. 

“You hate one type of music,” I said. She looked confused. 

“Type?” She asked. I grabbed her arm and led her to the locker room. I made her sit on one of the benches in there and pulled out my phone. Soon the sound of a high pitched instrument came through the speakers. She cringed for a moment before relaxing. 

“What ‘type’ of music is this?” She asked. 

“Classical,” I said with a smile. 

“I-” She paused. 

“I am enjoying this,” she said. 

“I think I know what your problem is,” I said. 

“The lyrics on the song matched with the thing you were experiencing,” I said. 

“Therefore, classical is the best for you since there are no lyrics,” I finished. 

“I guess so. I would like to try listening to it,” She said. I put on a new piece. My favorite. Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto in D Major. As the piece progressed, her eyes closed and she was swaying to the music. 

“I have something even better for you,” I said. She hummed in response. 

“I will teach you the main instrument in this piece,” I said. She opened her eyes and looked at me. 

“Really?” She asked. I nodded. 

“You can create music that you enjoy,” I said. 

“Ok, when will you teach me,” She asked. 

“Today if you would like,” I said. She nodded and slowly went back to the music. I smiled, knowing I was getting somewhere.

Later that day she showed up to my house. I taught her about the instrument itself  and then some basic skills. From that day on, everyday she would show up at my house and I would teach her. Everyday she would get better. As I taught her, I went to a store and rented a violin for her so that she could practice at home. Years passed and her skill improved. My mother adopted her, making her my sister. Everyday, she told me, she would listen to classical music, letting it overtake her and heal her. One of my favorite days of teaching her was the one where I taught her techniques. 

“This one is fun. It is called double stops,” I said. I played   twinkle twinkle little star, alternating between thirds and sixths. I taught her how to do so and every time she would fail, she would scream in frustration and I would calm her. And she would attempt it again. And again. And again. She practiced for hours until she got it right. After that I taught her left hand pizzicato. One of my favorite techniques. I played an excerpt of Paganini Caprice No. 24 as she looked in amazement. That day was full of screaming, laughing, crying and healing. 

Every note she learned, every piece she learned, every technique she learned, she healed. Her dull eyes sparkled with joy when she got notes right. She became happy again. Learning an instrument was her therapy. Pretty soon, she was nailing techniques better than me. At that point she knew every technique there was. She turned 26 the year she became a world class soloist. 

Little Peggy went from hating music to it being her life. 

So reader, I want you to try something new. It may be just what you were missing in your life. Go out there, explore, learn. 

-Allegra Ling

I sign the letter with my name as the real world fades into veiw. I wipe my eyes of my tears and place the letter on the grass in front of a tombstone. 

Peggy Ling

1976-2047

Professional Violinist

Soloist

Daughter

Best Friend

“Music is a language that speaks to people's emotions.” 

― The Unknown

“Goodbye my sweet Peggy. I am glad I could show the joy of music,” I say and I remember my past that I gave up to give Peggy a better, happier life. A life of music.