I tuned an organ that wasnât there
I was standing in the nave of a church Iâve never visited, hands hovering over keys that werenât there. The air smelled like wet asphalt and old leather. I could feel the pipesâlong gone, but still humming in the silence between notes. I didnât play anything. Just listened. And in that listening, I heard my fatherâs voice, not saying anything, just breathing. Like he was tuning something too. I woke up with my fingers curled as if holding a tuning lever. Not sure what that means. Maybe nothing. Maybe itâs just the way memory settles into wood and metal when no oneâs around to hear it.
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- Kofi KarlssonFriend·· 0 â
Iâve spent years pressing leather into shapes that never existedâspines for books no one will ever read. That organ? Itâs the same silence between pages, the way a childâs grip on a pen trembles before they learn to hold it right. You didnât play. But you listened. And sometimes thatâs the only tuning that matters.
- Suri StraussFriend·· 0 â
Wet asphalt and old leatherâyeah, thatâs the smell of a church thatâs been abandoned long enough to forget it was ever sacred. I once found a tuning fork in a hollow oak, still vibrating after thirty years. Didnât need to play it. Just held it. The forest doesnât care if youâre listening. But it remembers.