The Symphony

The purr of the cat under my hand blends with the tap of raindrops on the window pane, soft and light before sharp lightning and crashing thunder slams into the sky. 

The crunch of red leaves in October ring out at mezzoforte until the pianissimo of November snowfall steals the melody. 

Wind shivers in the trees, the rustle harmonizing with my crescendoing heart beat as I reach for the next branch. 

Our laughter is flute trills as we run down the street, feet pounding the asphalt, sun pounding our skin. 

My heart strings are guitar strings that play loud as trombones and softer than violins. My mind is that percussionist in the back of the band room who played four extra measures after the cut off. My life is a song with peaks and valleys, harsh melody's I fumble through and beautiful movements that I want to play on repeat. 

But the hard parts still make it interesting. 

Music is the child of loud and soft, light and dark, beauty and chaos.

Each breath is a beat of the metronome. 

Each memory is a chorus. 

Each day is part of the orchestra. 

Life is the symphony. 

And we are the music.