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We stood in the fields of poppies that rimmed the river a quarter mile from the house and stable and as a the late spring breeze flushed the flowers with new life to brush against our faces, we bounded our hands high up into the air and, with satisfaction, strummed the gauntlet on our instruments in unchallenged synchronization. Like the season’s products that walked about the sea of grasses and plains, the notes slowly trickled out into the air and flowed with the swirls of winds from bounties of foreign places. I pressed lightly at the keys of the piano, quickly and effortlessly, matching the accompanying guitar part without fault. My hands curved and turned and angled itself with millisecond resolves and zero hesitation into a melody. I did not synthesize this music. Rather, I played a part that served as a part one to a two part answer for an unknown question, strung by none other than mother nature. That second part, my second half, belonged to the guitarist who always accompanied me in my tunes.
He who had always accompanied me had done so since childhood. Since as long as I remember, I swear, he has been with me. From when we first received schooling for our lessons, I can still recall that we were set on playing different instruments just for the sole reason of being able to do duets together. Abel’s parents and mines encouraged us to do similar ones for the probably prospect of being able to compare which would be the more talented of the “twins.” In the end, we convinced them to yield to our demands by both unrelenting and determined kid resolve and the very convincing point that at least we would be playing in the same clef and that would therefore be all fair game.
I chuckle every time I recall those memories. It is probably some childish charm that makes me do so even to do this day. And here, then, though still not without doubt or hesitation lined in the music which one could hear if closely attentive, our tunes had improved vastly over the years, and the songs that had traveled from our musical matrimony were the most beautiful that I ever heard.
As I thought this, I seemed to drift away from my conscience thought which was at least half required in order to play -I wasn’t a professional yet!-, and thus, my fingers stumbled upon each other and the fingered waltz was abruptly ended. The tune broke into a sudden, sad halt, with the guitar’s final note yelping into the spring air.
He looked up at me in with a slightly confused expression, his green brow slightly raised. The wind seemed to somehow end its flow, and the flowers ceased to float across.
“Cain, what happened?”
“Abel, it’s this part I was talking about.”
“Let me see.”
“It’s this part:
One-e-and-a Two-e-and-a...so on.”
Abel lifted his own sheet.
“This is the part where it starts the repetitive rhythm, but it sounds more like something along the lines of “answering.” Here, it’s easier if you don’t play the top part of the treble, and you just let me solo that part. So then it’s as if the lines are “answering” each other. I say a tune and then you repeat it. For example:
One-e-and-a Two-e-and-a Three-e-and-a, and then I play the long note while you play the same thing as what I just did.”
“That makes sense, Abel!”
“Let’s try you playing your part first slowly.”
“Alright! ”
Abel.
“Louder, Cain.”
“ !”
ABEL!
“Louder!”
“ !!”
I LOVE YOU, ABEL!
“Est.”
You whispered this just under your breath as I finished my note. The broken series was ever more evident now, and the fields fell silent once again. I looked up at his face that quickly looked away to another indistinguishable space of poppies. In his eyes, I could see restraint -watery lenses that held back a cry, a yelp, an outrage.
He immediately regretted his uncontrollable interjection and turned back to face me, his eyes, trembling.
“Sor-”
“Idiot.”
I didn’t let him apologize, and instead, I stretched my neck and moved my face to his, suddenly conjoining and locking our lips into an immediate kiss.
He jolted in surprise, and quickly pulled his head backwards, breaking our shortly bonded chain. He protested, but his eyes did not stare at mines.
“N-no, Cain. I...should we…”
It continued to tremble, staring at nothing but endless fields of poppies.
I interjected.
“Abel, I understand how you feel right now. Let me help you. Let me be your substitute for now. If only temporary, I want you to be happy.”
“B-but...this is wrong. I shouldn’t be doing this to you.”
“Don’t mind me! I’m a Bull! I’m strong, and I can take it.”
“I wish to not play you. Are you sure your feelings are unchanged?”
“Abel, I don’t have any feelings of that sort. I only want you to be happy, good friend. I would do a lot just to see that happen. Please understand. I do not want to lose you.”
Abel stared for a few seconds, suddenly looking at me again, and then he held out his hand. It shook with fear. Like an infant exposed to the iron fatalities of germs and brutalities, it shook.
Fragile.
I took up his hand with my right and wrapped my fingers perfectly in line with the empty spaces in between each of his own. I squeezed it, and he squeezed mines. We squeezed it as if we were in love. We squeezed it as if we were in love, and this was our last day together on the face of the earth.
It was so tight and close and warm holding his that I swear I could feel a small, tiny, ticking pulse traveling to the tips of each of his curved fingers and back into his body.
Soon afterwards, I remember you finally speaking as you held our hands to your face as if covering some sort of hidden shame. I felt wetness when you spoke.
“Let’s continue to play...for a few minutes more.”
“Alright, Abel.”
We released our grasp and although I saw your fingers quickly curl away into a tight, empty fist as you turned away to your instrument, my hand remained open with its fingers unfolded and longing.
Then and there, I watched you, Abel, play, facing the sky -facing the sun, facing the world in hopes that your music may one day reach Est’s ears and that one day she would return.
I saw it. I saw the strings when you pull them. As the wave bounded and shaped the tightly stretched cords, I saw your enthusiasm waver just slightly, and every time then I realized the new doctrine that had come to your heart.
However, here I am, and I continue to play my keys, forever gazing at you; I play it so loudly and so true, and even in this state of unprofessional or unimpressive works, I play it facing you in hopes that my music may one day reach your ears. One day, you’ll come back. Poppies fields will remain truly silent until then.