Story written by Franklin Rayeski – Please do not use without crediting me
I made my rounds about the suburban streets of Rosewood Lane when I, in passing, witnessed a strange sight. The house that sat on the corner of Rosewood and Hollow Drive, the beautiful Victorian manor, was having its insides piled into a single moving van. I sat in my car, vexed, staring at the gorgeously decorated home, one that I had envied every since I moved down the block. I had always been in love with its detailed friezes and rose-colored panes.
My eyes fixed upon Jane Iris as she jovially exited her property for the last time and locked the doors behind her. When I first stopped, I was convinced that she was getting repossessed, and felt an immense amount of pity for her, but, seeing as how gleeful she was to leave, that pity turned into resentment. I was utterly disgusted with her behavior; how could anyone give up such an amazing possession such as that house?
I later learned, from my circle of friends, the truth about Ms. Iris’ decision. She had sold her beloved home in order to pay for a gilded Steinway and that she had moved to a shabby trailer at the edge of town to house it. I happened to drive around the new property with my own astonished eyes. This must be some sort of joke, I thought, no one in their right mind would give away a masterpiece for this subpar residence. Yet, there she was, as content as can be, having her grand piano hauled into her new home. It was all infuriating and stressful seeing her and her predicament; I wanted to walk up to her and tell her how she should be feeling, but I stayed put.
I continually drove around that trailer on Hope Avenue with utter confusion and bitterness. Slowly, as time passed, crowds started to form around the house in awe. I had heard that she, when she wasn’t working or sleeping, would perform original compositions day and night. I even found myself joining one gathering, to be a true role model to the children present. I was utterly disappointed that she would even consider passing her influence onto them. I spent my time flustered and ready to complain to anyone who would listen.
But then, she started to play. It was soft at first, but crescendoed into a beautifully written ballad; my anger vanished. The notes spoke with a serene sense of passion that no normal pianist could perform. I slowly started to understand; this was what she wanted. She sat in her new home, filled with something she loved, playing for her herself and no one else. We were only lucky to be able to hear her aspiration flourish. She gave up something nice, her home, for something beautiful: her passion, her love, her dream.
She stole my breath away and I frantically returned to my own house brimming with inspiration. I peered into the well of my forgotten dreams and fished for something to live for.