The snow outside glistens like a sea of silver shavings. A string of footsteps cuts through the shimmering white and stretches over the reach of the streetlight. I’m home for Christmas. Only it doesn’t feels like home with only me and Dad here while Mom and my sister are at the rental in the city, and we’re all stuck in this in-betweenness, floating aimlessly around each other. There’s nothing to do, nothing to write in my diary either, so I cover a whole page with snowflakes until 4 Jan ’81 is snowed under. In the kitchen, Dad is making dinner, probably something with feta and eggs.
I grab the tiny transistor radio and throw myself on the bed, missing my stereo, my sister, even school. On cue, they play an oldie, the one that goes Yes, I love you — that’s all I understand, my English goes no further. I close my eyes. The flute takes over the tune, breathy and hollow, in a key so lonely that if I open the window, it’ll melt the snow into a long and yellow river.
Is it E minor? If my piano were here, I’d check the key and even catch the tune as Dad says, but the wall where it used to be is empty now, occupied by a single chair and Dad’s guitar propped on it. A sad proxy for music, echoing the time before my sister and I moved to the city, then Mom followed us, then the truck with the piano, the desk, our clothes and books and just about everything — but Dad.
Soundless snowflakes draw a curtain on the world outside. The oil stove in the living room — Mum and Dad’s bedroom — murmurs its quiet tale. We’re watching TV. Two insignificant hours have passed, and as I wonder if the calendar will ever flip to 5 Jan ’81, there’s a power cut. You know, the kind of where the light goes out so suddenly that if sound could be seen it’d be black too? A tiny orange dot glows alive on the stove plate; high above it, the fire reflection dances on the ceiling.
“What now?” I ask, wondering if we’d swap rooms. When we were little, my sister and I would sleep here and Mum and Dad would go into our cold bedroom. The next morning, Mum would wake us up with kisses, her voice tender, caressing.
Dad finds the box of matches, shakes it, and lights up the candle in the iron-wrought candleholder above the TV.
“Now… We go to sleep.” The candle flame trembles from his breath.
“I thought we could…”
He knows what I mean. A power cut is time for music, a cozy family concert in my room where the piano was, where we all were — merry ghosts with swaying shadows growing taller through the night. Dad would play his guitar, I’d plonk at the piano, and we’d sing children’s tunes and old romances and pop-songs from the radio. His velvety tenor an octave below Mom’s mellow soprano, my sister and I filling the gap with a harmony that was never rehearsed, never wrong or out-of-tune either.
“Maybe some other time.” He clears his throat. “You take the candle, I’ll manage.”
In my room, his guitar is waiting. Gilded by the candlelight, it glistens bronze around the curves, plum-red at the two sound holes. I run a finger over the silver strings, and it sighs with longing to be played. I don’t know how. Last summer, Dad promised to teach me and even got me a book. It’s still in the box under the bed, smelling of new print.
The guitar is awkward to hold, it doesn’t look this big in Dad’s arms. I lean over and pluck the lowest string, E. It buzzes, stings my thumb and stops. I pick the rest, reach for the pegs and do my best with tuning, then turn my head and rotate the book until I understand the diagrams. Finally, I’m pressing a two-finger chord. The guitar comes alive with vibration, the strings quiver thicker and thinner while the chord breathes inside. E minor. Golden-yellow like the guitar, warm and solitary like the candle flame.
I press on another string. C major happens. I’m a midnight troubadour learning the language of serenades. D major is hard, G major — harder. My fingertips, grooved by the strings, burn with pain, my elbow aches, my shadow is angular and bent on the empty wall, but I keep strumming until the four chords join hands. Like magic, the flute rushes into my head to sing a melody I don’t have words for.
Won’t Dad come in? What is he doing there, sitting in the darkness? I want to rush to him, to shake him and say, So what if it’s just the two of us? We could catch the tune of this song, on your guitar. There’s a whole week ahead and more chords to learn until we get to Yes, I love you.
A flick, and the power’s back. The eyes of the street open and blink. I hear Dad’s steps; the TV starts again. The light in my room is off, but I don’t want to blow out the candle or put the guitar down. I pluck the strings one by one and listen as the sound melts over me. The groves on my fingertips throb, and I bring them to my lips. Outside, the night glows still and satiny white.
I could feel the magic of bonding. ❤️
Love how you capture this exquisite moment! Wishing you a Happy New Year, Ronny!