Sorting Opulence

The lights come up from dim to bright. The book is too much. The glaring white light makes my eyes water. The story is true. I close my eyes and pray for someone to dim the light.

‘He digs out his only treasure, the violin with two strings. The two other strings are gone, missing in the fray. His mind searches for the notes written in the dark halls of his mind. On "good days" he can almost play a whole piece. The sound keeps his mind in line.'

My home is warm and surrounds me.

His home fits in a shopping cart and the cold cement serves as a resting place for the night ahead.

I awaken from soft slumber and my pantry is full of my brand name breakfast. I pull on a shirt that still bears the tag.

He awakens with a start and hears the screams float through the crisp night air. He rolls over, the morning sun takes longer to find where he is. Yesterday’s meal will be all he knows.

I rush out the door with kisses still warm on my cheeks and a chorus of "I love you" swirling behind me like soft snow flakes.

He pulls back the tarp and moves slowly to find his treasured friend. The bow connects him to an old world where Julliard gave him praise. Life was shattered. He can't hear the sounds of family float through the air anymore. The dealer prowls down his side of the street, stalking his prey. He wraps his tattered coat close as the cold seeps in.

I carry arm loads of Christmas bobbles to dress my house for the season. I sort the opulence and admire the glitter. Snow begins to fall softly outside my window. I feel a chill and turn up the heat.

He knows by the snow that the hardest moments of the year approach. The city aglow with lights that give no warmth. There is no joy in the trash on his block. The trash of the city. The hookers and whores, the needles and needy. Discarded and dismissed.

I sit beside a mountain of decorations, cradling my Christmas cheer. I am listening to 'I'll be home for Christmas' and a log snaps in the fireplace. I think of him. The bright light suddenly stings my eyes again as if someone has hit the high voltage switch. Tears stream down my face and my heart burns with shame. I wait for the feeling to pass. For cheer to return. It doesn't. It won't. My life overflows and instead of giving joy, it glares at me like an angry monolith.

He needs. He needs. He needs.
I want. I have. I get more.

I must not dismiss this thought. Again I wrestle with it. It is not new. To go forward I must choose. I can open my world. Get messy. Risk. Reach out to lend my hand or I can reach to dim the lights again.

(Written as a response the book "The Soloist" by Steve Lopez.)