Arpeggiotic
Angela Cummings
Arpeggiotic
Memory scales the surface
for the familiar ridge, correct key.
In the empty cathedral
of my palm, your hands
continue to play.
In your mouth, syllables
dying,
want, even now,
to tell me what you know.
There was a time
when I too had no words,
when all you could do
was look at me and imagine a dream.
I don’t remember
but I know your love was orchestral.
You were the timpani and the harp.
String, reed and valve.
And then, a final recital, your fingers
unlocking memory’s vault.
An elegy of grief’s great bounty,
lullabies for the child still.
(Both of us.)
I know it now.
I could not know it then.
And Mother, I remember
what you told me, what it was you knew:
music is someone else’s memory
that we remember too.
February 2025
Memory’s Vault
Your fingers are failing wings in my hand—they grip
my own, scratch at me, traverse our two worlds.
Ever arpeggiotic.
This is the way now. This is the only way to tell me
what you know, what matters to you.
An exchange in kind.
I don't remember,
but there was a time when I too had no words,
and all you could do was look at me and imagine a dream.
I don't remember,
but I know your love was fierce, original. Orchestral.
You were the timpani and the harp. String, reed, and valve.
I know it now. I did not know it then.
Crossing.
Not crossing…
Crashing, crushing. A glorious fin erupting over the wave
that both subdues and propels it.
Now I remember. I remember this:
You bore the sadness for both of us. For all of us.
You wore our bravery and our dignity.
You told the truth to strangers,
told the story to anyone who asked.
A simple, heartbreaking story.
A common story that devastated me.
Child that I was. Child that I am.
And now, you are playing for me, your fingers in my hand.
A last lullaby. Elegy of grief’s wonder.
Requiem of joy.
I remember:
falling asleep to the accompanist’s chords,
your agile hands never faltering. Tireless.
But I tire. I break. I fault, an earthquake fissure,
as this wave somersaults over both of us.
My Dear, this is
like the trees and the tides,
the pedal and the staff.
I know it now.
I could not know it then.
This collective hymn, this unlocked vault of arias, and
Mother, I know this is true:
Music is someone else's memory
that we remember too.
August 2024
Memory’s Vault
Crossing…
not crossing.
Your fingers, failing wings I hold in my hand.
You, who have loved us all. You, who look up, in defiant prayer.
You, who it seems do not give up easily though I have begged you to,
wished for it, and scorned myself for this need.
Your fingers, ever arpeggiotic, grip my own, scratch at me;
traverse our two worlds. This is the way now.
This is the only way to tell me what you know, what matters to you.
An exchange in kind.
I don't remember,
but there was a time when I too had no words,
and all you could do was look at me and imagine a dream.
I don't remember, but I know your love was fierce, original.
Orchestral. You were the timpani and the harp.
String, reed, and valve. I know it now.
I did not know it then.
Crossing. Not crossing…
Crashing, crushing. A glorious fin erupting over the wave
that both subdues and propels it.
Now I remember. I remember this:
You bore the sadness for both of us. For all of us.
You wore our bravery and our dignity.
You told the truth to strangers, told the story to anyone who asked.
A simple, heartbreaking story. A common story that devastated me.
Child that I was. Child that I am.
And now, you are playing for me, your fingers in my hand.
A last lullaby. Elegy of grief’s wonder; requiem of joy.
I remember:
falling asleep to the accompanist’s chords,
your agile hands, never faltering.
Tireless.
But I tire, I break, I fault (like an earthquake fissure)
as this wave somersaults over us.
My Dear, this is like the trees and the tides,
the pedal and the staff.
I know it now.
I could not know it then.
This collective hymn,
this unlocked vault of arias, and
Mother, I know this is true—
Music is someone else's memory
that we remember too.
August 2019
Process Statement
The poem that became “Arpeggiotic" began shortly after my mother’s death. Dementia had slowly stolen her ability to communicate or play the piano. The last years, as I sat and spoke to her, I believed she was still playing her beloved grand, somewhere in her body and her mind. The first draft felt like a great therapy session, but it didn’t hold together the way I wanted it to. I came back to the poem five years later, landing on the second draft, and then pruned it for the final version, as I prepared to read it in a Conscious Writers Collective workshop. From the beginning, I felt the final sentence was the essence of the poem; all the other lines had to meet its merit.
Angela Cummings writes poetry, essays, micro fiction and is the author of the young adult fiction book, Siren and the Serenade. Her story “Humane” was one of ten finalists for the 2012 Esquire Magazine and Aspen Writer's Short-Short Fiction Contest. She lives with her husband and rescue dog on an island near the Salish Sea. Her most recent writing can be found on her Substack, Stirred, Not Shaken.
“Arpeggiotic” received an Honorable Mention for the 2024 Raw Earth Ink 2024 Northwind Writing Award, and was published in the 2024 Northwind Treasury.
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