The Last Symphony

By Palomi Sai Vemala

And at a single touch of love, his soul was brought back.

He thinks the gods from above might be calling him. The world has never been so silent, so soft. The grass below holds him in such a manner that he feels as though his mother is cradling him back into her arms again. Oh, his sweet, old mother. How much he missed her at the moment. He sees her face as he closes his eyes once again. the clink of the bangles that she never seemed to remove, her soft voice whispering to him at night of the adventures he could seek out when he grows up—telling him of things old and new, of dragons with icy breaths and of knights with hearts. Of nights filled with stars talking to them, and of courage, of faith, of loyalty. 

Oh, how he missed his mother. He was reminded of the time she cried all night when he injured himself after falling down from the giant apple tree across the yard and of how she held him tight that entire day. And of course, the very next day, the woman taught him how to climb the tree properly. They sat on the big branch as they saw the sun set that day. Oh, how much he dearly misses his crazy old mother. 

He lays down on the ground, allowing the gentle earth to hold him in its embrace, and the grass was so soft. So soft. His eyes drift off as he sighs towards the sky. The sun, the bright, beautiful sun, hid behind the clouds; it’s light shying away from the brown earth. The gentle hills that arose from the ground, which looked high and mighty, now looked soft. as though they pitied the dying man. the clouds round around the sky, closing it up as though it would grant him a goodbye with the rain falling onto his cold body. The breeze ran past, lovingly kissing the hills and the clouds.  

As he lays down on the ground, he closes his eyes, listening to the silence. It was so loud. Deafening. He could hear the muttering of the leaves, the breathless gasps of the wind, and the low hum of the hills. The world was its own orchestra, and he, a mere person. Simply an audience, as he sat back and took a seat.  

The melodious sound of the cello ripped him off of his orchestral performance. and it talked to him, the melody changing from the sad drawl to the desperate cry, constantly changing from highs to lows, from the swift shrieks to the sombre wailing. It was beautiful. He looked up at the sky, thinking that the gods from above were calling to him and that this was finally it. He could finally see the face of his loving mother again.  His eyes followed the tune as he watched the player, hunched over the magnificent instrument, his eyes shut as he held it in a tender manner, the bow in his hand looking like the sword as he swished through the strings, each pluck creating a crack in his heart. the desperate cry, tearing each string in his soul out.  

The tune changed again. The soft, slow rhythm followed the wind as it breezed past through the hills, and then it changed again, the harsh clangs against the wood as the person madly struck his bow to the instrument as he slowly once again drew it in a loving manner. and it kept going on like that as the person played in a maddeningly loving manner, as though this would be his last piece. He stops for a second as the boy raises his bow. The sunlight falls around him as it peeks through the clouds as though the music has summoned it, calling the celestial star towards the sound of its sorrows. 

At that moment, the dying man thought that this was an angel who had come to lead him to the afterlife. beautiful. The boy was beautiful. It was as though he were looking at a warm flame, soft, gentle, and passionate. His eyes scrunched up in the manner in which he once again struck the cello, a deep tune bringing a hollow feeling to him. And though the tune was filled with sadness, he could see the love he held the cello with.  

As the grey clouds parted away more, the sun shone on the boy as though it were his own spotlight, his time to shine as the star with him and only him as the one true musician in the world’s orchestra. The man's eyes flutter open as the final notes of the cello fade into the air. The warmth of the sun washes over him, and a gentle breeze rustles the leaves above. He feels a sense of calm settle over him, and he turns his head towards the musician, who stands silhouetted against the setting sun. The musician lowers their instrument, and their gaze meets his. A small smile graces their lips, and the boy raises his hand in a gesture of greeting.  

“My mother used to play the cello,” he croaked, surprised at how hoarse his voice had become. 

A soft smile lit the musician's face as he steadied the bow over the strings again and gently asked, in a voice that was exactly how the man imagined it to be, “What did she play for you?”  

“The last symphony, god, I can’t imagine how tired she must have been from playing it. I would beg her to play it almost every night.”

When he finished speaking, he heard the familiar tune of the cello slowly melting into the air with the melody as sweet and warm as honey and seeping into his mind, finding its way into the tiny crevices and stuck, making him remember all the memories that had rusted in his mind. Though the boy played it in a much better and much polished manner, he still couldn’t help but get reminded of the homely feeling that had inhabited his soul where the song had etched itself into his heart. Just as he was about to drift away, a delicate voice caught hold of him, and the boy sang. 

He sang of dragons with icy breath and of knights with hearts. He sang of lovers parting and of lovers reuniting. He sang of adventures, of hope, of despair, and of love. He sang of the mother who loved her son dearly.  The man closed his eyes. He closed his eyes and listened to it all, not daring to miss a single word, and was taken back to his adventures and journeys, back to his childhood, back to his home, and back to his mother. The music swelled, and a wave of warmth carried him aloft. 

He felt weightless, the world fading away into the sweet, comforting hum. Then, a cool and familiar hand touched his cheek.  His eyes fluttered open, and a gasp caught in his throat. There she was. There she was, younger than he could remember. Feeling like a child again, he whispered, scared as though if he were loud enough it would fade away, 

“Mama?”  Oh, how sweet and foreign the word felt on his tongue. 

“My brave boy,” she said with a voice thick with emotion. He reached out, trembling hand resting above hers, as he didn’t dare take his eyes off her. It was real and solid, and it held him down like an anchor. 

He had so much to tell her; he wanted to tell her of all the things he had seen, of all the dreams he had lived, and of all the stories that had come to life in front of him.  He wanted to tell her about the love of his life. His son. His regrets, his triumphs.  

And so he did. 

And she listened, pride swelling in her heart as she listened to every word. A mother’s love that transcended even through death. 

“You did so well,” she said at last.  

“Thank you, ma,” he said as he leaned into her embrace.  

“For what, darling?” 

“For everything,” he breathed, a content smile splayed out on his face. The world seemed to drift off, and it started to feel heavier and heavier, as though a heavy blanket was being laid on top of him to sleep in. The soft cello in the background and the warmth of his mother’s embrace surrounded his senses.

By Palomi Sai Vemala