Saturday proved the perfect day for a Spring clean. It was the first time in a long time that I finally had some time to myself. A breathing space to sort out my mind, my thoughts and generally, my ‘stuff’. I got stuck in. Unlike some of the other members of my family, I am ruthless when it comes to clearing up. I don’t generally cling to things for posterity, or the off chance that I may need them in 53 years time. My mother on the other hand has a crusty tube of ‘Burnol’ that is estimated to be 15 years old. Apparently, it’s very good.
After clearing away most of the unwanted clutter I came across a blue bag. I knew what it was; I just hadn’t opened it for a long time. Life had just been too busy. At least, that’s the excuse.
Taking the bag through to the bedroom, I sat on my bed and opened the flap. Inside, was the familiar black case. Although it looked a little dustier than I remembered. A little sadder somehow. I drew it from the bag, and pulled back the small clasps that fastened it closed. I drew a breath as I opened the lid.
There inside it lay, like a forgotten child. The once dark and rich wood was now cold, and covered with a thin film of loneliness. The music it once played only an echo of a memory.
Looking down at the instrument was a glimpse at a corner of my soul. A part of me that I had allowed to be forgotten, which was now hidden, shrouded in darkness. It was like meeting a stranger on a bus. At least, you recognise the face, but you battle with the name. Taking each piece from the casing, and holding them in my hands in turn, was an elephant ritual.; turning the bones of the dead. Remembering.
Sitting on my bed that sunny afternoon, I remembered the joy and fulfilment the instrument had given me. It was time I remembered the things that are precious to me. It was time I stopped being so busy. It was time to play again.
Sitting on my bed that day, it was me that needed the spring clean.
