Broken Strings

My mother is a harp,

tall and elegant

with a voice that chimes,

and each word is a note

played so sweetly.

Life plucks at her strings,

and she is vibrating; radiating joy

throughout the high and low pitches.

Her smile is like a soft melody,

and her laughter is as grand as a symphony.

Her delicate harmonies, however,

are no match for the cruel music of reality.

I was twelve when the first string broke.

It unexpectedly snapped in half,

slicing our fingers.

She needed to be repaired,

I was told time and time again.

Chemotherapy is like retuning,

going back to the right key,

but yet it left my mother musicless.

She forgot the lyrics to happy birthday

the day I turned thirteen.

Her head was too clouded

with the sheet music of surgery,

and the only metronome she had

was the constant beep of hospital machines.

Sometimes the reassurance of a heartbeat

is so much more beautiful

than music.