Music - The Food of Love

"I don't know how to reach her."

Dean was upset after visiting the home. He had sat, talking, filling the vacuum. Next to him, in a chair designed to keep her upright, like a vinyl throne, was a woman, shrunken and whiskery, narrow shouldered with big slippers and white, untamed hair. Insipid green was everywhere in the home - walls, uniforms, crockery - designed to make it feel like an inviting environment, tranquil and calming.

For Dean, it was a place of boredom and heartache.

He'd come out, hoarse. The lack of response was demoralising. He hated feeling so low but he couldn't push it aside. He also couldn't live with the guilt of not going.

"I've been reading," his wife said. "Music helps. Why not bring in some tunes she liked?"

*

Next visit, he rang ahead to arrange a room where he could be with his mother alone, with space.

He'd found the Spotify playlist she had called her "radio", containing an eclectic mix of music she liked. When he got there, she was slumped as usual but in a wheelchair.

Dean greeted her. No response.

He sighed. He wasn't hopeful but started to play her music anyway.

"Here we go, Mum. Some of these tunes might reach you where I can't."

It was a dance tune from the 1990s that reached her. Fast-paced, strong bass. She rose from her chair like a spectre and moved, stiffly but rhythmically. It was macabre. Dean was horrified and ashamed that he felt an instant revulsion at this skeletal figure moving to a tune that spoke of clubs and youthful impulse and dry ice.

He moved closer in case she fell and a memory came to him in a flash: of a night as a family, at a dance concert, 25 years before, when this tune was already old to him as a young man and his mum dancing uninhibited as a 50 year old. He remembered the heat of embarrassment keenly and how much he wanted her to stop.

He watched his mother, her face as expressive as all those years ago and instead of embarrassment felt gratitude at having his mum back for a fleeting moment.

***

366 words

This links to a piece I wrote about a concert I went to earlier this year where my eldest son admitted to feeling embarrassed about my dancing. I hope I don't end up in a home, mind lost, but I do hope that I dance when I am older without inhibition, feeling the music in my soul.

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