Tiny Trumpets: A Fiction Breather

When I came home tonight I couldn’t understand the change in my attitude and how I felt. It wasn’t overwhelming, but I was ok and I wasn’t before. Then on the edge of my bed, I saw it, a thin strand of what must have been your hair. I realized the first night we breathed next to each other I leaned in to kiss you and the single brown strand must have fallen on my shoulder and stayed there until I came home. By sheer chance it must have floated off of my cute ironed shirt onto my bed.

It must have been that night I laid my head down so close to your lonely curl that unconsciously I must have thought I smelled you and your wonderfulness, but what was really happening was I was taking in your DNA: your soul. And that whole night I must have realized fully your mind and heart wrapping around my spin so tight and warm. the following morning I was different. My breakfast seemed to be confessing its opinions of me and I suddenly liked the Beatles.

The strangest thing of all was in the palm of my hand I felt something growing very slowly just under my skin like potting soul under my fingernails.

I tried to ignore, but then in a group of friends I accidentally opened my hand and there without warning a thousand tiny trumpets blared the most beautiful Morricone influenced melody I had ever heard.

Of course I claimed I was ill and quickly moved away in hopes of avoiding awkwardness among my sometimes closed minded colleagues. I scratched at the trumpets, dashed them with chemicals, and even tried to burn them, but this only seemed to fuel their tender tunes.

Then days went by and the trumpets became heavy pulling me towards the ground, but then when I saw you last night it was like a tulip shifting towards a lighted window. Suddenly the small golden pieces of metal felt light again and began to play an old Lebanese folk song.

This was a song that spoke of the impossible. It held stories of small hairy canines dancing in the streets with dogcatchers. It spoke of an English man with white and straight teeth. And it told of a man much older in mind then even in years, which did not help his plight. A silly man that knew the trumpets and the hair danced down his ribcage like a dizzy ballerina hiding her painful grace. He knew this, but he could not shake the fragrance of her DNA or the notes of those trumpets weaving through the tendons that held his muscle down to his bones.