By: Pierre Milot
On this rainy Monday morning, I'm sitting in front of my computer screen lazily reading my e-mails. I'm in no particular mood, if not a little bored like the weather and I look for things to do later on in the day. As I discreetly listen to Michael Bubble's warm velvety voice coming through my PC's
speakers and rendering his version of ''The Way you Look Tonight'', I tap my foot on the floor to the cool sensual Bossa Nova beat, and I think that it's not going to be such a bad day after all. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, in an explosion I flashback to the beautiful face of my loved one, instantly triggering a kaleidoscope of raw memories I'd rather forget since that awful departure day. At once, the moment is lost and my world is unequivocally turned upside down. The roller-coaster is back again.
I feel these invisible clawing hands reaching inside my chest, encroaching my heart like a monster's
tentacles and with a piercing jab in the stomach, I feel the unmistakable signs of grief creeping up, taking over my life once more. Not fighting it, for knowing that with grief, there's no going around or under it, I decide to go through it, I stretch back on my director chair, punch the media player's repeat button, rest my head, close my eyes and allow the music to do its painful cleansing magic.
Surrendering to the beautiful melody, I experience only conflict though, for where there should be soothing tenderness, there is only growing hurt and sorrow, every musical note a stabbing blade, every word an aching memory: ''Someday, when I'm awfully low, when the world is cold, I will feel a glow just thinking of you...with each word, your tenderness grows...and that laugh that wrinkles your nose...and the way you look tonight'' .
deeper into my pain, and I weep. There seems to be no end to the tears rolling down my cheeks and I don't even bother to wipe them as they run along my neck to soak the collar of my shirt. But as time passes by, slowly, music becomes only music, words become only words, the weeping finally subsides, and I can recapture the moment once more.