Feeling: bruised
Listening to: Sarah McLachlan - Full of Grace
Reading/Watching: homework

Today was Jeff's funeral.

I figured out how to sing at a funeral without feeling strangled: you just open your throat and let yourself cry. Granted, I smeared my sheet music and could have watered an acre of farmland with those tears, but the voice comes out intact. He would've been proud.

I still half expect him to walk into the music department tomorrow, with the lofty eyebrows, the crooked-tooth smile, and the fake-severe voice asking, "And why aren't you practicing, young lady?"

I hammered on a piano for about an hour today. It unknotted the fist in my chest. Nailing those thirty-second notes in the Beethoven felt good. And afterward, people stopped asking if I was okay.

Three more days until the Valentine Cabaret, Thursday at 7:30. I've been inviting people to come, wrapping the words in a careful nonchalance, because I always feel guilty asking them, as if it obligates them. But page one of the Katie handbook: the things that matter most are those for which I feign the most indifference. The number of times I say "it's okay, I don't mind" is directly proportional to how crucial I don't want you to know it really is.

Did that make any sense? Didn't to me either, until someone pointed it out.

Comments? 1 so far...
Not a Diaryland member? Sign the Guestbook.