My study is upstairs. Across from his room.
His too busy with life room. Flung with rushing to the next thing room. The barely home room. Clothes too busy to pick up. A notice board with thick wads of paper, pay stubs and college forms.
And then there is his music. His eclectic collection from who knows where music. His ragtime, Irish, opera, and makes-it-hard-for-me-to-think-music. Reflecting his creative, original and completely himself personality. I know him just that little more because of the beat coming from his room. I get an extra piece of him when he hits play.
He bustles in between jobs, and on goes the music. He gets up in the morning and hits play. He showers, and there it is again, louder. His presence fills the house and we all know he breathes another day, because of his music.
2 months left. 1460.9688 hours of mess, noise, and big shoes in the way. Of trying to keep up with his crammed schedule, with the endless forms and sharing of the car. And, just hours left to hear his music. Only moments left to hear his soul hum. And then he leaves. As he should.
It will be clean up here. No more bedclothes tangled in an angry mess after fighting to wake for the early shift. Books from the childhood shelf handed down to brother, the broken old wobbly lamp will finally find its resting place. Clean. And quiet.
It will all get packed up in a box with other important things; a new laptop, new clothes new speakers. His music will go to college with him, he’ll hit play and others will hear it. Then they too will know him just a little more because of it. I guess it’s time to share. My loss is their gain. I’ll have to settle for silence as others tap their feet