Theres a place between earth and sky, the waves and the shore, a wing and the kiss of the wind. A place where a tassel of stars paint across a dark canvas for miles and miles. And in the earliest of light, the sun balances itself on its own tightrope right between heaven and earth. My mother walked very slowly to the table and, with the help of my sister, she began to tie the weathered strings of these old castanets on to her hands---loop thumb, double back wrap around the middle finger and close with a delicate knot. Hands weak and breath still labored. Soon as she wrapped her fingers around them it was like watching an old engine sputter and slowly come to life, her body slowly became erect, head, chin, eyes upward, elbows outward in this classic flamenco posture. A dusty metronome being wound up. Tap. Tap. Tap...The trot of an old mare’s rhythm becoming more syncopated, tighter and defined into a full gallop, faster and faster, till she found her cadence. 1.2.3-1.2.3.4 and so on. She looked at my nephew, Nelson, and slowly started to hum this far away toreador-like melody. A song that must have gotten her through so many chapters of her life. And has now brought her to this final one. The far away whisper of sound became sweeter, confident, and conversational. And in that very instant she was transformed. Like a flickering film of one’s life being played backwards faster and faster, she found her way out of this body, this time and place and back home again. But as quickly as she found her timing, and performance, it was time to end the song. The simple hitting of the two castanets was, to me, symbolic of her exit---her final rim shot, tipping of hat, grand drape coming down onto the planks of a stage, a last glance look over her shoulder. My dear friend performed in Yul Brenner’s last revival while he was undergoing chemotherapy. His description of this dying man placing his crutches down in the wings, hearing his entrance music and completely transforming in the light, gives me hope in the transformative power of art and song, both for the suffering and on-looker. That certainly was the case for my mother on that rainy afternoon. She was the architect that laid the foundation of a boys dreams. Imperfect yet flawless at the same time. The real deal. And so very missed. Happy Holidays and peace to the world.
Posted on: Thu, 25 Dec 2014 14:53:53 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015