Music of Souls

She dropped her gaze and said softly, "What I would really like is for you to play for me."

"Oh, come on! You cannot be serious. You cry when I play and you're happy. What are you trying to do? Put yourself into a full blown depression?" Jackson was right; she could barely get through five or six measures before the tears started to flow. What he did not understand was that she found his music to be cathartic.

"Pleeeze?"

"Fine, but if you start sounding suicidal, I'm going to slap you around." They walked to the music room with Jackson grumbling "glutton for punishment" and "own worst enemy," under his breath.

Jackson possessed a true passion for music. He was an accomplished pianist and composer, although he never published any of his works. He said, "They are mine, they are personal and I will choose with whom to share them." Sarah suspected the real reason to be twofold, one: He did not want his work critiqued by anyone, let alone those 'jugheads in the modern music industry' and two: his music held so much rapture, sadness and longing that anyone listening to it would understand that beneath the snarky I-don't-give-a-crap-about-anyone attitude boiled a cauldron of raw emotion. He never allowed anyone but Sarah to see that side of him, and she often felt sorry for his inability to let the rest of the world in.

The music room had raised panel cherry walls and a coffered ceiling with intricately carved beams. There were six large ornate sheet music cabinets along one wall and comfortable seating for eight, although Sarah was the only audience ever in attendance. Slightly off center in the room stood a breathtaking, nine-foot, ebony Steinway concert grand piano. Jackson stood at one of the cabinets and asked, "What's your pleasure Ma'am?"

"You pick."

"Good." At least that way he could play something upbeat. If she picked, it would be something melancholy, and in his opinion, that was the last thing she needed now. He ruffled through some pieces. "Let me see now, something in a major key. Aha, perfect." He chose a sprightly sonata in b-flat major.

Four of the music cabinets housed Jackson's works, the remaining two held other composers' music. The most rewarding aspect of living forever is you have unlimited time to perfect your abilities and accumulate wealth. He often thought, If Beethoven or Chopin had centuries to compose music, imagine the treasures we would have.

Jackson had not been composing much lately. When Sarah asked why, he answered, "I don't know, I guess I'm running out of things to say."

Jackson sat at the piano while Sarah found her usual chair, and grabbed a throw pillow to hug. He made an overtly dramatic flourish with his arms, winked at her and started to play. His long, thin fingers could span a thirteenth on the keyboard. They danced over the keys, coaxing beautiful sound from each one. Sarah enjoyed watching him play almost as much as listening. He truly lost himself in music and the hard mask of self-control gave way to softening features. The passion welling up in him was palpable. He never cried, but intense emotion painted his expression. She had given up years ago trying to convince him to let the rest of the world see that side. The last time she pushed, he had exploded, "What, so I can be like you? Half the time pining for Miss Wonderful and the other half whining because she ripped my heart out!"