"THE SISTER FLUTIST"

Hi Ya'll, IIIIII'M Baaaaaack.
Cheryl and I had such a wonderful, GREAT time in Tennesse with our two Girls and our two New Sons. Too GOOD to explain at this time fore that is not what this blog is all about. But stay tuned for other blogs or E-mails about our trip.

This blog deals with a story I wrote quite a long time ago. Believe it or not, it took me about a year to write, and it still is not perfect. You will notice some of it you read in my blog titled, "SOUL TO SOUL." That is because that writting was my foot notes to this story. Sorry for the repeat.

I believe this is the best I have ever written. I hope you enjoy it.
LUV-YOU-ALL
Later,
Peter

THE SISTER FLUTIST


The beautiful young woman sits at the bed side as her tears fall upon her shiny silvery flute. The notes float pass every closed door down the long corridor, all the way to the nurses station. Not one person is able to ignore the lovely sounds coming from the only private room on the floor. No one listens to their hospital supplied radios or televisions. They are all too mesmerized by the girls amazing ability to capture her audience. And wondering how her life’s outcome will be, at the end of her performance.

As the gentle early morning rain drips upon the smoked colored glass, you can’t help wonder if the dawn will rescue her, from her deep pain and troubled thoughts. The long, black clouds are very low. It's dark, almost too dark to see. And the rain falls down upon her consciousness. She sits and plays her magnificent music, her mind wondering to another simpler situation, long ago, when she was just a child in the eyes of her loved ones.

The sun raises high above the dense clouds. The light is dull. And as the night ends, so does the music. She stands up from her bed side chair, bends over the bed and whispers into the ear of the patient. Then she straightens up and begins to separate the pieces of her instrument and pack then carefully into the black, leathery looking case. As religiously as a Christian goes to church every Sunday, this event takes place every night until the Sun rises. No one seems to know exactly who she is or specifically why she is there. But she knows. And although there isn't anyone else to notice, the unconscious patient, smiles as tears run down her pale cheeks.

Through the large revolving doors, down the old, gray, cracked up sidewalk, straight to the cemetery is where her walk ends. In front of the two identical tombstones is when the reflections of that similar situation long ago begin to stir her senses, again. The carved names are the focus points as she flashes back to years gone by, but not unnoticed. One reads “Mommie”and the other reads “Poppa." She wonders and questions the true safety and possibility of no return to this world and life of her one person audience. The words become crystal clear in her mind. Written by the person she refers to as “ Poppa.”

"I knew a man, knew him since before I was born. I knew this man by many different names. But for me, there was but one name. I always did and I always will call this man my Poppa. As a child when I was asked why this and not Father, Daddy or Dad. I would simply say because he's special. When I grew older and I was asked what makes him so special. I would simply say because he makes ME feel special, so very special to Him.”

As the young woman reflects on the past she remembers one day as she entered her home she saw her worst fear in her Mothers tears. As she said to her "Your Poppa is no longer near.”
Even as young as she was then she can still remember asking her Mother,“Oh, Mommie please can you tell me why, why did my Poppa leave?” Thru weeping eyes she responded to her daughters question by saying, “Death is only one of God's many mysteries.”
The child replies, “ Oh, Mommie I don't want to be mystified, I just want to know why, oh, why did my Poppa die?”

He always told her neither the havens above nor the fires down below could ever part their souls. She knew him well this man she called Poppa. The love he had for them and for the things that they did together is still as clear in her mind today as they were when she was a child growing up. He believed in hugs, kisses and tender fare wells. Just in leaving for work or saying good night right before bed. This he believed as we all do and he practiced it religiously as we all should. A day never went by that the children didn't hear "I love you." coming into their tender ears. She still remembers how he loved to hear her play. Music from her flute would make his whole day. Music unites our souls, he would say, even if we are separated miles and miles apart he would always reinforce. If ever either of them was lonesome or feeling blue. If ever they needed comport or to be reassured they need only to, "air their flute."

So, she “airs her flute.”

" Mommie " was easier to understand. There were no written words to decipher. And, the bonding was unmistakably the most loving, the most caring, and the most true unconditional love that could ever be between a mother and her daughters. And so unusual was the fact that they both considered their mother their best friend. These are the things which bonded the three of them soul to soul for all eternity. Yes literally soul to soul. Words and music, yes, words and music. The words shared between the three of them and the music the two of them played is what made it all possible. Possible for them to receive comfort and reassuring from “Poppa” and the best of love and friendship from “Mommie.”This is throughout all eternity simply by “airing their flutes.”
So, she “airs her flute."

The difference in her usual, predictable entrance was immediately recognizable and noticed by all whom new the routine. The dress changed from casual to beautiful lady like. Her slight smile showed strength, courage and strong will. Her stride even seemed sturdier and more sure footed. Her soul radiated conference and determination. The same soul that is so closely united with the other three. Two names on the tombstone and the unconscious, helpless, lifeless patient, she has been playing and praying for sense the very first day of admittance to this unit. Above all this, what was even more curious, is the absences of the black leathery looking case which housed the flute. Instead there is a flute in each hand. The very shiny silvery one everyone had seen and heard her play. So shiny it seemed you could see your reflection as well as looking into a mirror. The other was just as shiny, but the most impressive color of gold ever witnessed by the human eye. Across one arm is another change of clothing identical to the outfit she is wearing.

Just past the nurses station she pauses then turns back and announces that first thing in the morning the patient in the private room, and herself would be leaving the hospital. Please notify the doctor, nursing staff and any other concerning personnel. Although it was very nice to ask and offer, but no doctor referrals, transport arrangements or any other assistance would be necessary. This has been by far the most information voluntarily conversed by her to anyone. The physician is called, security is called and every one is put on alert to any number of possibilities. To observe, listen and wait for morning when the physician makes his rounds.

The music begins again. The sound is just as beautiful as ever. There is a calm which settles among all the employees who come within an ear shot of the room.

The music goes on thru the night. And just as dawn is braking thru the clouds, there is a hush amongst the staff. The physician walks onto the floor. Straight to the nurse’s station, very much confused and asking questions about the previous night’s performance and phone call his answering service received last night. A report is given and he proceeds down the long corridor. Half the distance between the nurse’s station and the patients’ room, he stops. Left foot forward, body slightly twisted to the right. He bowels his head forward and his ear turns to the only private room on the floor.

The music has changed and the physician turns to his followers and says, '' That is not one instrument, that is, '' he pauses and listens. '' that is two flutes being played,,,, listen! '' The music was magnificent before but now it was unbelievable. None of them had ever heard such tones and notes. Not from just two instruments any way and for sure never in the hospital.

They all rush to the door their anxiety at very high levels. The Physician slowly and quietly pushes the door open without even thinking about knocking, which is not his normal routine. As they all enter they can’t believe their eyes. Both women are sitting on the bed playing their flutes together like nothing has happened.

This patient has been basically in a coma for almost a week. The battery of test, physician consults, and phone calls throughout the world, everything that could be thought of was done and no diagnosis could ever be made. There wasn’t any medical reasoning why the patient could not or would not respond. And now here she is sitting on the bed playing her flute. Everyone just stands there listening kind of dumb founded until the song ends.

There would be no answers or comments to all the questions being bombarded at the two of them by a very confused staff. The two beautiful young women stand up from the bed each holding their flute in one hand and joining their other hand with each other. They walk to the door whispering to each other. Although there were some attempts to delay them they continued on their way as if nothing had happened until they reached the opening to the corridor. There they stop, turn to face each other, nod and smile at each other. Then the woman who had been playing her flute all week turns her head to face the astounded doctor and nurses in the room and smiles to them. Her only words were, “We’ll be back soon, but next time it’s going to be MY turn.”

As they walk towards the elevators whispers of speech between the two of them can barley be heard. One asking questions so rapidly she could hardly be understood. And the other was attempting to answer her as quickly as she could. There seem to be many questions. “How are they? How was it there? Could you actually hear me playing ? Did they like what I played ? Did my playing help your time there ?” Were you in Heaven? Did you see other people there? When can I go?”

“Wait, wait, wait, hold on a minute.” The other one says. “They are very well. Yes you will go, they are waiting very excited to get to see you. We heard you playing the whole time I was there.” “But I didn’t play the whole time, only from the time I got off work till dawn.” “Time is very different there so we were able to hear you the whole time. And no it’s not Heaven but a place between here and there. Only under special circumstances can any one do what we have done. It’s a very rare and beautiful experience. I’ll explain everything to you within time but there is something very important we must do first.” Then the elevator doors close and they are gone.

Through the large revolving doors, down the old, gray, cracked up sidewalk, straight to the cemetery is where their walk ends. In front of the two identical tombstones is when the two young women simultaneously raise their instruments to their lips.

And The Sister Flutist, “ Air Their Flutes.”
The Beginning,

By Peter Collins