A Question Of Choices


Her stare challenged everything in sight: late twenties and a shaper of events, the answer to many situations lay filed in her experiences: she feared little but some aspects of emotion, and looked on those she knew as reference points. Unmarried and unattached, six years spent with a school-time love now consigned to memory, she had determined, if nothing else, that life was a matter of furnishings and dress.
All her friends were relatives, and home a concept more than place: protected by ability and a career of some significance she had moved to a new property. She had not met the owners yet, and there was no reason she would do so.

Thus the knock on her door was unexpected, and opened more from habit than intent to reveal a boy of around six looking up at her with an enquiring face. “Do you play the piano miss” he asked as if she already knew his name, and before she could control herself, she said “Yes” because music was a dormant passion in her life. “We’ve just got one from my gran, she’s dead” he told her by way of explanation, adding “Come and see”

Why she did we cannot say but there was an openness about him she could not bruise so she followed him to the flat below where , sure enough, a battered upright stood against the wall, lid raised and keyboard in full view. His mother poked her head round the kitchen door, a bit older than herself but not by much, and clearly on a different path and warm.

Both looked at her expectantly, uneasily it must be said, as she sat down and played one of her own compositions, written before her father lost his way and her parental home became a mausoleum. The boy started dancing by her stool and his mother said, “That’s really good” and so it may have been, but written in another time, when flowers bloomed and angels still wore white.

“What do you do?” the mother asked, and she replied, “I am a retail analyst for a large department store.” The mother was impressed, though in a baffled way. “But what about the music?” she asked and the young boy said, “Play some more,” but she replied, “I must get on, I’m sure you understand” and the mother said “Of course” and the boy just shook his head, for he was from that gentle place where flowers bloomed and angels still wore white.

About Peter Wells aka Countingducks

Trying to remember what my future is
This entry was posted in character, creative writing, Fiction, Peter Wells, values and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

8 Responses to A Question Of Choices

  1. beth says:

    he knew one when he saw one. there was no hiding it from him.

    Like

  2. busbybabes19 says:

    A beautifully written gentle tale …

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Robin says:

    So bittersweet….I love this – “there was an openness about him she could not bruise…”

    Like

  4. araneus1 says:

    “for he was from that gentle place where flowers bloomed and angels still wore white.”
    Over the years, I’ve run out of adjectives to apply to your stories.
    Loved this one.
    Terry

    Like

  5. This is a beautifully melancholic tale Peter. And aren’t ours lives all littered with the remnants of possibilities?

    Like

  6. Scarlet says:

    I think I need to put my angel wings in the laundry basket….
    Sx

    Like

  7. nelle says:

    Sometimes, we don’t want to recognise the music in us, whatever it may be.

    Like

  8. Jack Eason says:

    Reblogged this on Have We Had Help? and commented:
    Peter muses for us all…

    Like

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