Page 61 of A Wistful Symphony

“Mate, you really should get out more.” He shakes his head. “It wasn’t much of a surprise, given her state. She was so weak the reverend took her to services in a wheelchair.”

The sting of worry itches inside my chest, and I can’t help asking, “Have you seen Andrew?”

“He was here yesterday.” Astro lowers his head. “The poor guy was devastated.”

“Devastated how?”

“He sat in a corner like he was carrying the weight of the world and didn’t talk to anyone. Had two or three pints and left.” He pauses. “It wasn’t like before, if that’s what you’re asking.”

I lower my head and sigh. “Thank goodness.”

Astro leans on the counter and fondly smiles. “You still care about him a lot, don’t you?”

“Can’t help it.” A bittersweet grin finds its way to my lips. “Well, I better bring these drinks back to the guys. They’re probably wondering why it’s taking so long.”

“No problem. Good seeing you, mate.”

I lie awake at night, staring at the old seepage stains on the ceiling, thinking of you. How are you, Andrew? A part of me wishes to call, sprint to wherever you are, and take you in my arms. Run my fingers through your hair, kiss your forehead and tell you, “This too shall pass.”

I can’t. I’m no longer part of your life, and it would be unfair to force myself into your grief just to quench my worries.

Out of my control realm.

However, doing nothing leaves a disquietude in my heart.

Be it out of sympathy or guilt for being such a lousy support throughout your mother’s disease, I can’t tell, but it urges me to take action.

To make a gesture. Hours of thought later, I settle on visiting your mother’s grave the following day.

After leaving Delia, Zoe, and Robin at the train station, I trace unhurried steps to the church graveyard.

It’s late afternoon, and my long shadow licks the cobblestone pavements.

The decorated iron gates welcome me in. A gentle breeze gusts through the lush, well-kept grass and blows flower petals in the air.

Since there was a funeral the day before, many townsfolk took advantage of the occasion to visit their relative’s graves. It’s like spring took over the place.

There’s no tombstone for Claire Westcott yet, but the fresh dirt and the sea of flowers make it easy to find her burial site.

She was quite loved in the community. I rest the humble posy I picked from my grandmother’s garden along with the lavish bouquets and garlands and stand with my hands clasped for a prayer.

A waste of time, really, but religious as she was, it strikes me as a proper homage.

I ask for her forgiveness. For being judgmental and framing her as a negligent mother when her reality was much more complicated than I could ever comprehend. For being so self-centred, I only saw the depths of your sorrow too late. For not taking good care of you.

In the midst of mumbling the Lord’s Prayer—the only one I remember—a voice makes me turn.

“Eric?” you say, and I hold my breath.

Your expression twists in a frown. Dark circles stain the skin beneath your eyes, and I can barely distinguish the hazel in your muted irises. Faded. Like some light has gone out in them.

My heart clenches, and I ball my hands into fists to prevent them from searching your face. Eager as I am to soothe your pain, I must give you space.

“I’m sorry. I’ll leave now,” I say in a hurry, and start walking away.

“No, please.” You take me by the arm. “Will you stay for a while? I don’t want to be alone.”

I stare deep into your bloodshot eyes and nod. “Okay.”

You rest a bunch of daisies next to my flowers, and we stand side by side for a few moments.

“Didn’t expect to find you here,” you finally say.

“Just paying my respects.” I shrug. “Besides, I figured the gap between morning and evening services would be the spot to not run into your father.”

A light chuckle bursts out of you. “We thought the same, it seems. I don’t think I have the strength to see that man ever again.”

“What did he do this time?”

“He cast me out of the wake.” You bite your lower lip. “Said I wasn’t welcome in his church.”

“Prick,” I mutter. “Did you see the funeral, at least?”

“From afar.” Your voice gets lost within the chirps of birds. “I was afraid he’d say something if I dared to get close and ruin Mum’s service. That’s why I came back today.”

“I’m so sorry, Andrew.” It feels empty, but I say it anyway. “I’m sure your mother knows how much you care, wherever she is.”

“Does she?” You turn to me, tears pooling in your sunken eyes. “I didn’t even have the courage to say goodbye to her properly. I spent years not talking to her because of some silly fear, and I was barely with her at the hospital because I was afraid of running into the reverend.”

A sigh leaves my chest. “She must’ve had the same regrets. Not standing by you when your father cast you out. Not helping you sooner. Not keeping in touch all those years. Do you think it was because she didn’t love you?”

“Of course not.” You shake your head. “It was all because of that damn man.”

“There you go.” I offer you a sympathetic smile. “She knew how much you loved her, Andrew.”

“Still, I’m a freaking coward.” Your fingers cling to your golden pendant. “I should have loved her better. Same as I should have loved you better.”

My gaze falls to the flowers scattered on the earth. How can you think that about yourself? You’ve been more than patient with my bullshit and put up with so much. Things you didn’t have to. Things you weren’t at fault for. If anything, I was the one who fucked everything up.

“That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told,” I whisper, and we say nothing else.

You close your eyes and, grasping the cross on your chest, you mutter a prayer. Your whispers mingle with the wind’s rustle over the grass, and I stare, throat tight, as tears roll across your cheeks.

My hand stretches towards yours. Our fingers graze ever so lightly, until you entwine them together, tight as a pact.

Streptococcus. The flu. COVID . The intrusive thoughts rush in like an avalanche, but I let them be.

This is what you need right now.

Our encounter at the graveyard takes its toll on me.

A tidal wave of feelings claws its way up from the depths and washes away my composure.

There’s no denying my love for you. It pools at the cockles of my heart and swells in my chest at the risk of bursting.

And seeing you belittle yourself so blatantly fills me with agonising frustration.

Not knowing what else to do with it, I let it out the only way I know how: by turning it into music.

Back at the cottage, I sit at the piano and play.

Song after song, piece after piece. They’re all useless.

A thousand melodies could not erase how I feel.

And then, when I think nothing could mitigate my pain, an old set of notes tiptoes into my memory.

The song I composed after getting out of the hospital.

The same we played on the night we got back together.

A fond smile etches its way to my lips, remembering how that song cradled us to bliss. How it made us remember how much we loved each other still.

“It’s beautiful. Does it have lyrics?”

“Never seemed to find the right words.”

My smile grows wider. I know what I need to do.

Not willing to lose momentum, I write on the first thing in front of me.

The back of a blank sheet music is as good a place as any.

For someone who’s spent a lifetime writing instrumentals, I’m surprised when my pen scratches the paper as if possessed.

Words flow out of me like an open faucet, translating my aching heart into verse. Raw. Clumsy. Overflowing with honesty.

Tears pool at the corners of my eyes when it’s done. Simple as it is, this fumbling ballad is the best thing I have ever made.

“Robin? I’ve written a pop song,” I say, calling them on a whim. “Can you send it to that producer friend of yours? Just to see if it’s any good.”

They answer without the bat of an eye. “Thought you would never ask, darling.”