Cords of Euphoria

The sun was setting beyond the mountains. A beautiful symphony of colors signing in unison, soothing all the lost souls. The silver of the moon slowly dawning brighter. The crescent easing into a new chapter of time. For soon it will blend into a new phase, the start of another beginning.  As if a sign from the Gods, that Oak’s next unfolding would be luminous with wonder. 

The rays escaped his view and slowly the warmth turned to fridgedness. He sat there for a while, unmoving, just listening to the trees rustling in the wind. Until he was shaking. Oak tugged on his ropes, lacing his shoes tight, and began his hike down. 

Oak had said his goodbyes to his friends, it felt as though yesterday he had made. Africa was the most magnificent place he had traveled to and the pictures he had taken were eaten up like bait of a shark by magazines. But that's not why he came. Oak’s prized work allowed him to travel places he had never imagined visiting the breathtaking caves in Scotland to the glaciers in Argentina. What he loved most about expeditions were the people, learning their cultures and helping those in need. Leaving Africa would be his hardest departure yet. The tribal songs he connected to and had the privilege to write about, had reminded him of his childhood. Oak would compose day and night, swarming with awards. But he dropped his true passion when his mother died. Every ounce of the musical notes that dripped in his ear reminded him of her, a pain he could not bare. So when he was offered a job as a photojournalist he gladly took it. In hopes of capturing nature's and humans most beautiful embodiments. The places that you could feel the suffering or rejoicing, practically steaming off the ground, like a pond on a chilly morning. 

Africa had been Oak’s calling, being sent to convey the challenges of climate change through the peoples art and music. And he had done just that, even more than what his paycheck will be giving him. Because one can not put a price on the true love he radiated. 

 Visiting home was a once in a blue moon for Oak. And he was overdue for his next trip home, especially for his mother's birthday, approaching nearer in time by the minute. The family had celebrated it each year after her death and Oak missed most, if not all, because of his absorbing job and sorrowful heart. His father had practically ordered him to come home this year. It would be the tenth year since she was swept up to the stars and a mighty gathering was in place. 

The plane was small and packed, reeking of feet. Oak wondered what he would say to his family, maybe he would tell of his brilliant adventures or the people he connected with or even the lives he helped. But he knew after years of not visiting home the words coming out of his mouth should be apologetic. Before he could gather his thoughts, a bumpy landing was upon him. Nervous as to what would come, even more so than his job. He made his way to claim his baggage and got lost in thought as the conveyor belt ran marathons around him. Until the intercom turned on and gave the final call for claiming baggage. Quickly Oak’s sweaty palms frimley grappled his luggage. And waved his free hand above his head for a taxi. 

After a quarter of an hour they arrived down a narrow long driveway lined with trees. The smell of rain fuming the car, a smell he had missed. The brick house of his past caught up to him. It was the kind of house that you could get lost in and as a kid, a heavenly kingdom to play hide and seek. Each window had a candle lit on its edge, with the curtains half drawn. 

Oak stood before the door, the time seconds from a greeting. The immense door nearly two times the size of him with a fresh pine wreath curled in a crimson red ribbon. It brushed his hands as he knocked and abruptly it opened, crowds of people submerged him.  

“About time I see you around here, everyone has been asking if would make it!” His brother said in a forced, tight wound hug. 

Oak sighed and prayed he wouldn’t make a big scene. Sometimes no words were better than some. He went to his old room, stopping for the occasional hello and hug. He shut the door and collapsed on the floor. Pictures of his mom crowded the room along with his instruments and trophies. Tears swam down his face as he swiftly touched his guitar. He played each note as if it were yesterday. Never would the music leave his veins, no matter how hard he tried.

His dad peaked his head in and said, “I thought I saw you sneak in, come on everyone wants to see you. And I was hoping you would play her favorite song on the piano, if that's okay?”

Oak turned around and gave him a hug, the first since her death. They stood there for moments, united in faith, knowing of each others pain. Soon the rhythm of people slowed and the music calmed, knowing of what was next. 

People circled around the piano, not a peep was made, with the exception of the occasional sob. They made a clearing as Oak made his way to the bench. He straightened his tie and let his fingers fly. The notes were a natural essence that could instantly communicate his emotions. An orchestra of remembrance and connection. He felt at bay, playing until the night was day. He knew in that soul moment and place that music was his true calling. And from that day on a day would not go by without music. He was always scared to play since her death, but he learned that when he played he felt closer to her, hand in hand.