I met up with the lady I was talking to yesterday for I begged and pleaded with her to tell me more. She welcomed me in her house which was neat and quiet. It was small, but this lady was of about 75 years old and lived alone.
"Tea?" she asked.
She placed the water in the kettle and waited. Once steam started to slither out of it, she turned off the stove sighing.
"No whistle," she said to herself.
"Whistle?" I asked.
"A whistle, my dear," she said coming toward me, "is somewhat like music. If you knew the way birds chirped, or the way a bell jingles, you'd understand. A whistle is a sharp, cheerful way to get someone's attention. It was a beautiful sound. You'll never know."
I clenched my hands into fists, my knuckles as white as paper. She made music sound like it was everything. I really needed music. I want to hear it, feel it swim through my ears. I want to hear the melody surround me, trap me in a fantasy land.
"That's it!" I said standing up from the wooden seat. "Thanks for the tea, miss, but I am going to do whatever possible to hear this music. Humble Ones, you are gonna give me some answers!"
I marched out of the house. I was going to the Humble Ones. Going into the depths of the past. The reason music doesn't exist anymore.