Elegy for Broken Things

The trick is not to think. Keep your mind occupied with what's in front of you - fill the pot, turn on the stove, watch the water boil, open the package, dump the noodles in - and you can forget there’s anything unusual about today. Go through your after-work routine like you do every day. Don’t look at the calendar. Don’t look at that one painting on the wall. Keep breathing.

Cello music leaks up from the linoleum floor. You’ve never met your downstairs neighbor, but they practice diligently at seven o’clock every day. This is all you know of your neighbors: the mouthwatering scent of Indian spices next door, the baby who cries above your bedroom, the couple across the hall whose relationship is splintering, loudly. Fragments of a hundred different worlds, sharing a building but totally lost to each other.

Your legs start to ache. You sit down as you wait for the noodles to cook. Your crutches are still by the front door. You don’t need them for limping around the apartment, only for longer distances like walking to the bus stop.

Rain beats against the window, as if the weather remembers what day it is, even if you’re trying to forget. You watch the drops race each other down the glass like tears. The dried rose on the table trembles in its vase as wind creeps through the drafty window. A lump forms in your throat.

You push yourself up and limp over to the stove. Drain the noodles, add the packet of seasoning. Pour them into a bowl. Carry the bowl to the table.

Without warning, your right leg buckles. The bowl flies out of your hand, slides across the table, crashes into the vase and knocks it to the floor. Glass shatters.

Your elbow aches where you landed on it. You can’t get up, because the sound of the vase breaking has jolted you ten years into the past. Memory crushes you, inescapable despite your best efforts.

You wake up with a start at the sound of shattering glass. Heart hammering, you sit up in bed. What was that? What time is it? Is Dad home yet?

Dread coils in your stomach, though you don’t know why. You slip out of bed and tiptoe to the door, light and graceful as a ballerina. Silently you open the door just a crack and peer into the living room. There’s a candle lit at Mom’s writing desk, but she isn’t there. Dark liquid is spilled across the floor, glittering with shards of glass. It was just a bottle of ink. That’s what broke. Nothing to worry about.

But you hear low voices at the door. You open the door wider and see Mom at the front door, talking with someone. Then she crumples, falling against the doorframe, like all her bones just broke. The man on the doorstep is a police officer. You want to run to Mom, but fear has you paralyzed.

A knock on the door interrupts the memory. You sit up, dazed and shaken, almost surprised to see noodles spilled on the floor instead of ink. Wondering who on earth could be knocking, you use a chair to pull yourself to your feet and stagger to the door.

A girl about your age stands in the hallway. She greets you with a concerned smile.

“Hey! I’m Zoe, I live below you! Sorry to bother you, but I just wanted to make sure everything is okay? I heard a big crash.”

The cello music, you notice, has gone silent.

You force a smile. “Hi! Thanks! Everything’s fine! I just tripped and fell, and broke a vase!” You laugh at your clumsiness. “Nothing to worry about, but I appreciate your concern.”

“Okay, are you sure? You didn’t hurt yourself?” Zoe looks you over, and her eyes widen as she sees your legs. “Oh my gosh, did you- is your leg okay?”

You force another laugh. “They were like that before, don’t worry.” To prove your point you grab the crutches from beside the door and slip your arms into the cuffs, gripping the handles to take some of the weight off your crooked legs.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I just thought- okay, that’s good.” She's clearly embarrassed now. She looks like she’s about to go, then changes her mind and says, “Do you need help cleaning up?”

You hesitate. It’s been a long time since you’ve had anyone in your apartment, and the place isn’t exactly spotless. But cleaning up that glass really will be a pain. “Sure.”

Zoe comes in and makes herself at home. She finds the broom right away (“I keep mine in the same place,” she says with a laugh) and begins sweeping up the glass. You start to clean up the spilled noodles.

“Are you the cello player?” you ask.

“Oh, you can hear me? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. These walls are like cardboard. I hope it doesn’t bother you.”

“No! I love it!” You could tell her that some days listening to her practicing is the only thing that keeps you going, but that seems a bit dramatic for someone you just met. “What was the piece you were playing just now?”

“Bach. Cello Suite number 2.”

“You’re amazing! Where did you learn to play like that?”

“My grandpa was my first teacher. Now I’m studying at university.” She laughs. “My mom wanted me to study something practical - parents, right? - but music is my passion. I can’t imagine my life without it.”

You nod. You understand.

“My mom’s a poet.” You’re not sure why you’re offering personal information, but there's something about Zoe that invites confidence.

“See, she would probably understand following your dreams.”

You almost laugh. You wonder what your mother is doing today, and briefly picture her alone on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, flipping through a photo album with a box of tissues beside her. Then you push the image out of your mind.

“What about your dad?” asks Zoe.

The lump is back in your throat. “He was a violin player.”

“Oh.” Zoe’s voice softens, noting your use of past tense. “A family of artists. What about you? What’s your gift?”

You shake your head as you head to the trash can. “Nothing.”

Something in your voice warns Zoe not to dig deeper. You toss the noodles into the trash.

“So, I’m guessing that was your dinner?” Zoe says brightly, after a heavy pause. “Hey, I’ve got enchiladas in the oven, do you want me to bring you some when they’re ready? We could have dinner together?”

Your heart melts a little. There’s a stack of instant noodles in the cupboard you could cook in ten minutes. But Zoe’s unexpected kindness makes you realize how badly you don’t want to be alone. Not today.

“Actually, that would be wonderful. If you want to.”

"Great! I don't think I caught your name?"

"It's Aurora."

The enchiladas are amazing. Zoe smiles when you tell her. She has a nice smile, the kind that makes the whole room feel warmer.

“It’s my grandma’s recipe. Perfect cozy food for a rainy day.”

“Tell your grandma thanks from me.”

Her smile turns sad. “She actually passed away five years ago today. I made this in memory of her.”

You stop chewing, stunned by this coincidence. You almost tell her. But the words stop in your throat.

“Well, I’m honored that you’re sharing your grandma’s enchiladas with me.”

“Had to share them with someone." Her gaze drifts up to the canvas on the wall above the table. "That's beautiful! Did you paint that?"

Your chest tightens. “No. My dad did that one.”

“Oh, I love it.” Zoe gazes at the painting. You look at it too, then look away when it starts to hurt.

“Is she…” Zoe leans forward. “Is the girl dancing on the water? That’s so whimsical. And the northern lights are magical.”

“Yeah.” You’re not sure why, but you add, “That was me when I was young.”

She looks at you with curiosity. “Really? Did you like to dance?”

The innocent question sinks into your chest like a knife. All you can do is nod.

Zoe’s eyes widen and flick down to the crutches leaning against the table. She realizes what she’s said. The silence becomes awkward.

She scoops more enchiladas onto your plate. “You should come visit me sometime,” she says.

Zoe has been touched by the gods. That's the only explanation. The music that flows out of her cello is more than just sound- it’s alive. Sitting in her living room, watching her play, you feel things you haven’t felt in a long, long time. The Bach suite was a forest filled with dappled sunlight. This piece is the angst of a storm-tossed sea, swelling with melancholy and passion. A Bluetooth speaker fills in the rest of the orchestra. When she finishes, you clap wildly.

“Breathtaking. What was that one called?”

“Elegie. By Faure.”

“How do you do that?" You're aware of how desperate you sound. "Can you teach me?”

“To play cello?”

“No, to fly. To make magic. To do whatever it is you just did.”

She smiles at the strange request. “I think everyone has their own magic. They just need to find what it is.”

“And what if you lose it? Do you think- do you think you can ever get it back?”

Zoe says nothing, just looks at you. After an unbearable pause, she says, “I don’t think you’ve lost your magic, Aurora.”

You look down. The music has unlocked something in you.

“It was my mom,” you say quietly. For a few moments you can't say anything else. Zoe waits, wise enough not to prod.

“I fell," you say finally. “Broke both my legs. That part was my fault. But my mom- she didn't let me go to the hospital, or get any medical treatment. By the time I did, it was too late. My legs healed wrong.”

“Why?” breathes Zoe.

“She thought she was protecting me.” You can’t keep the bitterness out of your voice. “Her mind is all twisted. After my dad was- was murdered, she wasn’t the same. It broke her, I guess. She never healed. Or if she did, she healed wrong.”

“Aurora, that’s awful.” The pain in Zoe’s voice forces you to confront just how awful it is.

You nod. “So that’s why I can’t dance. That’s why the magic is lost.”

“Has she ever apologized?”

You shrug. “Haven’t talked to her in three years. Not since I ran away.” You correct yourself with a laugh that tries and fails to lighten the mood. “Well, not ran away, obviously, but, you know. Cut off contact. Left my small town and started a new life in the big city.”

“Do you think you’ll ever see her again? Do you want to?”

You have no idea how to answer that.

Dreams torment you. Your subconscious vividly remembers things you’ve tried to forget. At least once a week, you wake up sweating and cold from a nightmare. But the nightmares aren’t the worst. The worst dreams are the beautiful ones, the ones that bring you back to a world of wonder and joy that disappears the moment you wake up.

Tonight you’re dancing. Violin music fills the air around you, frenetic and wild. With absolute freedom you leap, twirl, stomp, sway, and spin. Nothing in the world can hold you back. Seagulls flock around you, joining the dance. There’s nothing above you but open sky. Under your feet, nothing but air. You’re flying, carried upward by the music. The whole world is dancing with you.

Then you wake up in the dark, and it feels like getting stabbed.

The baby upstairs is wailing- that’s what woke you. You lie there, crushed by a misery too heavy for tears. The walls close in around you. You can’t breathe. There is no music. No magic. You’re crippled and alone, a hundred miles from home in a city full of strangers.

You can’t take it anymore.

Reaching for your crutches, you get up and leave the apartment. The elevator takes you up to the top floor. There’s a narrow stairwell that leads to a door. It’s supposed to be locked, but you discovered long ago that it rarely is.

It's windy on the roof. You take a deep breath. Coming up here usually helps when the world feels like a cage. Sometimes you can see a few stars. Tonight the sky is full of clouds, tumbling across the sky.

There’s something in the wind. Something sharp and wild, like an invitation, or a dare. You breathe it in. Almost without thinking, you come to the edge of the roof. You’ve never been afraid of heights; the buzzing in your belly is pure pleasure as you look down at the alley below.

Abandoning caution, you lean forward. The buzzing intensifies. The wind whips your hair in front of your face, catches your shirt, tugs you forward. It’s a wild night, a fey night. A night for ending things.

You could jump. It’s easy to believe, with the music from the dream still ringing in your ears, that you could fly. Your lost magic will come surging back to catch you, and you’ll dance on the air.

Or else you'll fall, like the day you lost dancing, and that will be the end. You already know what falling feels like. A fitting end to the tragedy your life has become.

Fly or fall. All you know is you're done living in a world without magic. Your toes hang over empty space. The violin music spills out in front of you, unspooling like golden thread. You’ve forgotten how to be afraid. Your crutches fall behind you with a clatter. The music in your head swells toward a climax, unbearably beautiful. You spread out your arms like a bird taking flight.

Somewhere in the alley, glass shatters. A thrown bottle, maybe, or a broken window. In an instant, fear comes rushing back. Vertigo slams into you. You stagger back, frantic to get away from the edge. In your haste you trip and fall backward. You land on your elbows, breathing hard.

Did I almost...?

Panic grips your lungs, squeezing them tight so you can’t get any breath. A roaring fills your ears.

I almost jumped off the roof.

You grab your crutches and get inside as fast as you can. Back in the elevator, you try to breathe deeply, to calm your racing heart, but the panic won't let go. Shaking, you hesitate a moment, then hit the button for the floor beneath yours.

Zoe answers the door after a few minutes of knocking, bleary-eyed and wild-haired. She looks concerned when she sees you.

“Aurora? What’s going on?”

“Can you play for me?” You’re too distraught to apologize for waking her up.

Zoe rubs her eyes. “You want me to play cello? Now?”

“Please,” you beg. “I need you to play for me. The Bach. Please.”

She looks at you for a few seconds, blinking, probably wondering what the neighbors will think. Then, because she is a real friend, because destiny brought the two of you together on the anniversary of your father’s death, she says, “Okay.”

You sit on the floor of her bedroom as she takes out her cello. Your heart is still pounding like it wants to escape your ribcage. As the first notes of the Bach suite resonate from the instrument, the tension starts to leave your body. Your heart slows. Your chest loosens. The music is real. Not a phantom violin fantasia pulling you toward the void. A deep, solid melody, filling the small bedroom, weaving a safety net strong enough to hold you. You close your eyes and breathe.

Zoe plays, as always, as if she's on a stage in front of a crowd. She pours her heart and soul into the music, just like your dad always did. Memories flood through your mind, accompanied by waves of pain, but now you can hold them without collapsing. The tears come, finally, spilling down your face like rain. Suddenly you want to call your mom. Yesterday you would have been less afraid to jump off the roof than dial your childhood phone number, but tonight, enfolded in the warmth of Zoe’s music, anything feels possible.

When she reaches the end of the piece, she holds onto the last note for a long moment before releasing it. In the silence that follows, you realize the magic isn't lost. It’s right here, filling the room, resonating in the space between you and your friend.

“Are you okay?” says Zoe softly.

You nod without opening your eyes. It's been a long time since you were this okay.

"Yes," you whisper. "Can you play it again?"