An Octave Higher
For as long as I can remember, I have sat on the stairs listening to my mom play piano. On her good days it was Mozart and on her sad days it was Beethoven. But today as I sit on the bottom step, biting my nails there is just silence. My mom is sick and I feel alone. Even Moonlight Sonata is better than silence. My name is Octavia and I'm eight years old. It’s October and Octo is 8 in Greek. Later that night, I woke up with a jolt. I heard a noise, not just any kind of noise…it was the sounds of wild flowing scales and arpeggios coming from the back garden. I was scared but not too scared to check it out. I crept down the staircase trying not to wake my mother. As I peeped through the curtains, I couldn't believe my eyes: the big tree in our garden was spinning around like crazy, berries and leaves flying off it! I was suddenly very scared. Our tree seemed alive, spinning like a ballerina in a hurricane. Something drew me outside. The sound of piano keys whispering in the leaves. I opened the window as quietly as possible. I stepped outside and saw the tree as still as a statue although I had seen it spin with my own eyes a few seconds ago. I felt terrified but I didn't look back. As I got closer I thought I recognized the sad notes, the tune seemed familiar but also strange and then a soft voice cut through the melody. "I know about your mother," the tree whispered in a calm and quiet tone. "I need to tell you something important. You know...I'm not any kind of tree, I'm your tree. You climb me, play on my branches and collect my leaves. I love you and I want to take care of you. My music is different from hers, from the piano your mother plays. I play the music of your heart which is now heavy and sad. Every night you can listen…and maybe we can find a more major key.