In answer to Linda G Hill’s stream of consciousness prompt Relative/Relativity
Nothing is absolute.
This is what Lara thinks as they remove the bandages. She looks at her hands, trying not to be overwhelmed by their appearance. Of course it’s nothing compared to her face but the consequences are different for her. That she’s lost vision in one eye is tough; but her hands, they allow her to live her passion.
The doctor’s here, ready to answer her questions or alleviate her disarray. But there’s nothing he can do. He can’t change the fact that her fingers will never be the same nor that she won’t ever play music again.
We hang onto things; we’re hoarders by nature. Some people hang onto objects while others hoard memories. That’s all she’s got left. Well that’s not entirely true but there’s a lot she’s lost. We think things will stay. We think we’ll always be there. Sure death is somewhere in the future but the rest is ours until then. How wrong! Nothing is forever. Nothing is absolute. Look at her.
She thought she would play forever, well at least until she was too old and her gnarled fingers could no longer hold the saxophone and bring out the sweet sound it offered. But no, she’s only 30, her career about to peak, and boom! Because someone was careless, because someone was drunk and still felt they could drive their car.
Of course, she’s glad. It could be worse; she’s alive. It means her husband and children won’t have to bury her. But what sort of mother can she be? What sort of wife will she become? And what kind of woman can she remain now she looks the way she does? Nothing is absolute.
She’d always known beauty was relative. Until her husband, nobody apart from her family had ever called her beautiful. And relatives are always biased right? She’d always known talent was also relative. Until this open mic’ night, no producer had ever noticed her.
Even time isn’t absolute when you think about it; one year to someone who is 80 years old only represents 1/80 of their lives, whereas it’s 1/5 of a 5 year old child’s life. She also knows that she could have lost her name; the first thing they asked was her name, to see if she remembered it. A name: an absolute thing if there’s any. But no. Not for everyone. She can be glad she’s retained it.
Still what she’d held in her hands is now leaking away through broken fingers. Can anyone guarantee her husband will stay? She’s seen her face; her children haven’t been allowed to visit her yet. She knows she’d scare them.
What will she do? Would she lose her relatives, her family, her heart because she’s lost everything else?
Nothing is ever absolute.