Waiting

by ALLISON ELIZABETH

Out somewhere, probably in a dumpster or by the side of the road, lies my mother’s organ and her piano. My mother was great at the organ and wanted to be a professional player when she grew up. My grandma said she couldn’t wait to see her play music in the mall. I don’t know where my mother imagined she would be playing—definitely not the mall! She got an office job, met my dad, got a house, put an organ inside, and then had my sister and me. She decided we took up too much space to have an organ and replaced it with a small piano that she never played, and therefore never taught me to play. Instead, I learned how to sing, play clarinet, and play bassoon from strangers. I asked my mom why we had the piano and she said, “I’m not really sure. No one plays it.” 

I’m an actress. I was never the most talented but I always had a lot of passion. I went to school to study acting and she threw away her piano. Literally threw it away. She said it was easier to have someone destroy it than to find someone who wanted to take it in. My mother says when I’m onstage she always imagined I would be somewhere bigger, which sucks for her because I like to perform among the hot pipes of old alleyways and places where bricks have to be placed between the door and the wall so everyone can come in and watch.

Somewhere—maybe in my eyes maybe in my hair maybe in my nose maybe in my arms maybe in my thighs maybe in my laugh maybe in my smile—my mother sees the person she wants to be, and now she must rise to the occasion to become her own mother. In the trash, in the trash. Throw it all away. It’s easier to destroy it than see what it might not become.

***

YOU: Hi

ME: Hello

YOU: I do not love you.

ME: Oh.

YOU: You do not remind me of a song.

ME: You can tell so quickly?

YOU: If there was a song that matched you I would know right away. I know songs very well.

ME: And you do not love a song you haven’t heard?

YOU: How can I love something I do not know?

ME: Can you at least try?

YOU: Yes.

ME: Well I do not want you to.

YOU: What? Why not?

ME: Because I have heard you and I want you to hear what I hear.

***

It takes one and a half songs to fully cook one side of a grilled cheese sandwich on medium heat. The music plays in my headphones because my mom and dad don’t like what I listen to, and I don’t like to listen to an interpretation of what my aunt has texted.

She says she’s sorry. 

Turn the bass up. Boom ba ba ba ba boom ba ba ba baby super bass. It’s too late to say sorry to me because I’m busy memorizing the rap part of the lyrics. I need to impress Dallas. Normally, she’s impressed by my ballads. Drinking a medley of chicken noodle soup with a soda on the side. Warm and refreshing. I have been disappointing Dallas. She’s a vegetarian. I never sing the songs she knows. My grilled cheese is made with cheddar cheese, mayonnaise, and pickles. No animals were harmed as far as I am concerned.

Annie, did she say anything weird to you in the kitchen? 

Wait. Did the song end? All the songs Dallas listens to sound the same. It’s unnecessarily difficult to learn the lyrics. Once I’ve heard one of them I’ve heard them all. She needs variety. I try to give her some. That’s why I’m always showing her new songs.

She was absolutely sloshed when I was helping her clean the dishes. 

Dallas likes to drink more than me. She also likes to smoke more than me. I think it’s hot. She lays her head on my arm and hums. I ask her what song it is. She tells me the same one she played for me before we got to the party. I press my face into her hair. I tell her I like that one. I’m lying.

Oh my God. She’s texting again. 

Dallas is always on her phone. She sends me paragraphs upon paragraphs about cats she meets in boutiques. They’re all named after celebrities that mean nothing to me, but everything to her. Maybe I’ll get her a cat named after a song I think she would like.

What is the burning smell, Annie? 

Fuck. These fucking songs, all made of synthetic chords with nonsense words, play impossibly interchangeably with one another. Dallas is perfect except for the music she likes. I don’t understand how a girl endowed with so much light in her eyes can be so narrow-minded to melody. I’m sorry, Dallas, but I have to put on something that makes sense. How am I going to feed us if I burn our food? Well, this is just for me. 

I put on a tune created with just the human voice and a guitar. Simple. Everything that needs to be there can be found on the side of the road in a cardboard box. I need to text Dallas back. I send her my song.

I hope she likes it.