Make the Most

An Accidental Song

The industrial berber carpet itched as I crawled under the table and turned my red raincoat into a pillow. I pulled my pencil skirt down, lay back, and stared at the underside of my music therapist’s circular table.

Remember building forts? Pulling dining chairs from the table, swaddling them in every spare blanket? Making pine boughs into caves, the sharp scent surrounding you? When blankets had superpowers to become forts and spaceships?

You were insulated against the world. Against vampires, cows with guns, and the older, bigger, meaner kids down the block.

“I don’t want to do anything.”

Silence.

“I don’t want to talk. I just want to lie under this table and do nothing.”

Malory leaned over and peered under the table. Her long auburn hair filled my view. She sat back up, turned, and rolled the office chair toward her instruments.

Drums. Mandolin. Bowls. Keyboard. Harp. Ukulele. Flute. Castanets. Rain stick. Steel-tongued drum. Recorder.

So many instruments to soothe the soul and maybe dilute the rage.

I closed my eyes in my pop-up cave. Malory’s 36-string harp sang, each note brief as Planck-time.

I may have even slept—a lost art.

Fifty minutes later, I pulled on my raincoat and said goodbye.

Music therapy was where I spent my Monday afternoons at four o’clock.

Another Monday.

My name rang out in the oncology center waiting room. I grabbed my things and walked down the hall to Malory’s office.

Small talk as I settled in—this time at the table.

Malory exclaimed, “Today we are going to write a song!”

“Great! Where’s the pen and paper?”

“You don’t need those, just make it up!”

“Oh, no no no no no. I don’t sing. I need to write the words.”

“No. Not going to do it that way. Pick a topic.”

“Mmmm, loss.”

“Okay. Loss.”

“Now, pick an instrument for me to play.”

“Well, the ukulele seems odd for loss. Ukulele,” I said.

Malory’s long fingers strummed the ukulele. A B flat, an F, an A chord.

“When you hear a chord you like, start singing.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t have anything to sing. I need a pen and paper.”

Strum. Strum. Strum.

Her face turned directly to mine. And she strummed.

“Sing.”

A chord struck my fancy.

I hummed along, just a few random notes.

Malory slipped back to G and smiled encouragingly.

“Just go where the music takes you. I’ll follow your lead.” She smiled, strummed.

Dismayed, I turned away so I could disappear a little bit.

People are in the halls and offices, I thought, horrified. They might hear me.

Singing in front of anyone is not what I do.

I began to hum, paused, then hummed several more bars: G major, E minor, A major, and D major.

“Lyrics.”

Malory built on my notes, her fingers finding perfect accompaniment.

I opened my mouth to try, and words fell out.

I love you even though it is hard

Our dreams that will never go far

Oh why

Does it have to be so

Let me in

Let me touch your soul

I love you, though I wish it weren’t so

There’s one thing that we ought to know

Not today or tomorrow

But in time, you will have to go

Let’s make

The most

Of what we have today

Hold me close, and I’ll never let you go...

One verse. Two verses. A chorus.

“Wow, I’m making a song!” I thought.

Momentum lost, I sent Malory on a long ukulele solo. She played every which way, waiting for me to decide.

I found the last verse and sang it.

Goosebumps.

My fifty minutes were up.

I went home.