Life in MiniatureDon't Sweat the Small Stuff!

Looking For Miniature Piano ? Then This is Where You Want to Be

Trying To Forget The Man She Loves

The days of Christmas passed into January 1916. Elsa admired her new, palm-size figurine, another collectable residing on her desk. The memento was a miniature piano formed of crystal glass-a Christmas Eve gift that Grant had given her.

The gift Grant selected flattered her-such a meaningful gift. It was perfect. It moved her. But as she sat at her desk adoring the transparent luster of the miniature figurine, she grieved, for her brush with romance had filled her with uncertainty again. This confusion about her life was so bewildering, as she had always seen her future very clearly. Perhaps a reclusive stroll through the park where she could find counsel with herself would clear her mind some. It had been months since she last visited the place.

Elsa stepped outside on an early hour of a cold January morning. The chilled winter air greeted her. The sky was overcast white. Elsa passed through the rigid bars of the iron gate, then tucked her hands inside her warm, mink fur muffler while a thick, knitted scarf shielded her neck.

After a short walk through the neighborhood streets, Elsa set foot upon the white grounds of Willow Park. The vast acreage of the place was deserted. The trees stood frozen, their twisted branches barren. She listened to the silence about her. A great calm filled the air. All was quiet. As she began walking upon the snow-covered path, her eyes surveyed the frost-covered branches of the sleeping willows. She embraced the peace knowing that the pounding of music ringing in her ears and noisy school halls echoing with chatter was only days away. As she strolled by herself over the snow-covered pathways, she couldn't find answers to the dilemma that plagued her mind.

~

Elsa resumed her studies at the University of Kingston. Her spirits remained dismal like the gray clouds hovering low over Kingston. Her busy schedule, which included an important music final exam, was hindered by a weighty matter that could not be delayed any longer. She owed Grant an explanation for not writing sooner.

Elsa reluctantly wrote a very painful letter to the young man whom she so fondly admired. When she finally mailed it off, Elsa pushed hard to forget him altogether.

Meanwhile, in Boston, Grant found himself in the shadows of Elsa's silence once again; his daily trip to the post office always resulted in emptiness. Finally, one month after Christmas, a letter arrived in his mail slot.

Thursday, January 20, 1916

Dear Grant,

Thank you for the gift ... it is lovely.
I should have written to you sooner. The day following Christmas, I stared at a blank page in my dairy for almost an hour and didn't know what to write. As I sat at my desk, I realized that I may have been too hasty when I left you the note on my front door during Thanksgiving.
Our time on the icy pond was truly romantic. But when the dawn of Christmas morning arrived, something inside of me regressed. Concerning relationships, courting is a delicate matter which can be terribly complicated. If one such as I engage in courting on one hand and manage the affairs of my life on the other, there is a careful balance that must be well maintained. I would be like a performer walking a tight rope-balancing her life with a pole. She must keep an eye on her destination and be stalwart enough to remain well balanced in order to reach her intention without falling off. As I mentioned, my world is quite arduous with my dream of teaching music and all that requires of me. I feel courting may have besetting consequences on my future. I'm afraid of losing a part of my life that I love.

Grant, I wish not to discourage you; neither do I say that your calling must come to an end. Please take my words well-and with understanding.

Respectfully,

Elsa

Elsa's agenda, busy with class studies, pushed into early February. She did well on her midterm exams, but her final in music received criticism from her professor, Mr. Hodges. Her modern style, the veteran professor told her, would not be favorably accepted in the music world. Ingrid Bowers, a classmate who'd known Elsa since the ninth grade, had been a thorn in her side. Ingrid played the classics well, but lacked the talent for composition, which was something that Elsa did with ease. After the music professor made his blunt assessment of Elsa's work, Ingrid looked over her shoulder and snickered cruel words to her nemesis.

Since the start of the new year, Madeline had noticed that her reclusive daughter was overly quiet and distant. Her spirit seemed downtrodden, burdened with emotional perplexity since Grant's visit. A silent storm churned within her. Elsa remained confused; her normal contentment and focus were lost.

When Elsa came home from school one day, her mother sought to speak with her. Elsa had already retreated to her room, ruminating on an English paper, when a gentle nock sounded on the door.

"Elsa," her mother beckoned, "may I come in?"

"Yes, Mother."

Her mother, indeed, knew of Elsa's shifting moods for Grant. She gave her daughter the time and space needed to sort out her feelings, but it was time to clear the air. Madeline opened the door and entered Elsa's room.

"Dear, I would like to speak with you." The care and concern in her mother's voice touched Elsa. "Sit here with me on the bed."

Elsa capped her fountain pen and sat next to her mother, though she wished not to delve into her confused state of mind.

"Elsa, I've noticed that you've been extra quiet since Christmas. Is there anything bothering you?"

Elsa was silent. She did not know which set of problems burdening her soul her loving mother had noticed in her demeanor. After a brief pause, all Elsa could say was "No, Mother." Her head hung low; she was unable to make eye contact.

"Are you sure, dear?" her mother asked sympathetically.

Her mother's gentle probing softened Elsa; she could no longer remain silent.

"Last week, during our music finals," she painfully explained with tears swelling in her eyes, "we had to demonstrate a music piece-either from a classic or an original composition. After I played my composition, Mr. Hodges humiliated me in front of the whole class telling me that my style would not be accepted because it is too modern. He implied the classics are the only recognized form of art."

"Dear, you know that's not true," Madeline expressed compassionately as she wrapped her right arm around her daughter's shoulder pulling Elsa to the safety and warmth of her side. "Mr. Hodges is an old music professor who believes in the classics-like your father does. He should keep his antiquated comments to himself!"

Elsa continued, "Then Ingrid Bowers turned and jeered at me saying that my modern style is a waste of time."

"Ah, that girl," Madeline exclaimed. "Dear, do you know why Ingrid said that?" Elsa nodded affirmatively, her head hanging low. "She's always been jealous of you because she can't write music herself. Don't allow her cruel words to interfere with your dreams."

Elsa sat calmly. Her silence expressed that there was more.

"Dear, what else is bothering you? I see it in your face," her mother gently probed deeper.

Just then Elsa looked her mother in the eyes, knowing that her feelings for Grant could no longer be hidden. Silent tears flowed from her eyes and streamed down her checks. Suddenly, Elsa burst into a heartfelt sob, like a little girl who'd fallen and torn the fabric of her favorite dress.

Madeline wrapped both arms around her misery-stricken daughter and held her tightly, trying to comfort her child as she had when Elsa was a babe in arms. Elsa cried fervently on her mother's shoulder.

"Elsa, my sweet darling," she said calmly, rocking her grown daughter gently, "It's all right, my precious darling. It's all right. You can tell me whatever it is that is bothering you. Is it Grant?" Madeline had seen the sadness grow in Elsa since she had sent off her last correspondence to the handsome young suitor.

"I don't know what to do, Mother!" Elsa bellowed, still crying frantically.
Madeline felt Elsa's ribcage vibrate with the stir of emotions that pounded within.

"Do you love him?" her mother asked.

"I think I do," her lips stammered with the crackling of her voice, "but then other times I'm not sure what I feel. If we get married, I worry that I'll regret not following my dream. I'm afraid that I'll lose everything that I've come to cherish in my life. But sometimes I feel that I cherish him as well."

"No, my precious, no! You won't lose anything," her mother assured her.
Her mother's words helped to diminished Elsa's sobbing to a few tears as she listened to words of advice.

"Darling, life has a way of giving every man and woman a chance to sing with life, a chance to skip with life, and a chance to waltz with life.

Life is knocking at your door and giving you this chance. If you don't take it, you will certainly have other opportunities. But you may not have a second chance with this wonderful young man named Grant Ford. Nothing happens by mistake. There's a reason for everything."

The weight of Elsa's body continued to lean into her mother's side. All was quiet-calm. Elsa then heaved a deep sigh as her lower lip quivered with the discharge of emotions; they were spilled round about her and seemingly on the floor as well. Madeline reached into her pocket and pulled out a white handkerchief and wiped Elsa's tears. Elsa was exhausted.

"Don't be afraid, dear," her mother said. "Grant is a gentleman who respects himself and who manages the affairs of his life well. And he loves you. I can see that when he looks at you, Elsa."

Mother and daughter embraced each other with warmth and a renewed sense of calm and confidence.

(Excerpt from The Silent Note reprinted with permission from the author, Patrick Davis).

(Originally published at GoArticles and reprinted with permission from the author, Patrick Davis).

About the Author

Patrick Davis was first introduced to the magic of storytelling through filmmaking. Knowing the Dynamics of Story Structure, his inspiration and talent is admired in his first novel, The Silent Note. Patrick is a mentor to other writers. He lives in San Diego, California. To learn more go to
The Silent Note
.