Excerpts From Stories I'll Never Write

His Accordion - Poem

For an assignment
Based on "The Book Thief"

When I got there, I was an antique.
A porcelain doll, cheeks reddened from frostbite’s kiss.
I was nine years old and alone.
When I got there, I was broken.

When I got there, his arms welcomed me.
Warming me back up.
Then I was frozen back over by her words - but that didn’t bother me.
When I got there, I was still broken.

When I got there, I had nightmares.
And he was always there for me.
During the early hours of those mornings, he taught me
A, B, C.
When we got there, I started to heal.

When I started to heal, he started playing his accordion for me.
“Music is a universal language” - isn’t that what they say?
We’d spend long nights, talking me down from the nightmares.
And reading.
We’d read too.
Always.
We’d read to the tune the accordion played.
Hearts beating to the melody.
As these haunted midnights
Turned into happy memories.

As I grew older, he played the accordion for me more often.
That’s also around the time we started being a little more
Risky
Rebellious
Radiant
We didn’t care if she heard the melodies late into the night.
Or if she saw our subtle winks.

I started to help him as he left technicolor fingerprints
all over this black and white country
And when we got there, we laughed in shades of champagne.

Time continued to tick on, and we both grew older.
When we got there, we both started getting a little more
Sneaky
Secretive
Serious
I started stealing books from a castle on a hill,
But he still loved me.

One night, not too long after another successful robbery,
He grabbed my shoulders tightly.
Threatened arson on my treasures
If I even whispered something wrong.
He proceeded to tell me something he’d been hiding for a while.
Or should I say
Someone?
When we got there, I looked him right in the eyes
And swore to never tell a soul.

I met this someone soon after.
I also befriended my old nightmares again,
But when the past would shake hands with
My mind late at night,
He’d chase them away with his accordion.
When we got there, I trusted him more than ever.

Week after week, nobody spoke.
But one more week after that,
That someone fell ill.
When we got there, he started acting a little more
Tense
Terrified
Timid.

When we got there, his accordion still whispered softly
As he tried to tame his thoughts,
Keeping himself warm by the crackling fireplace.

When we got there, I learned that he had a tendency to yell when scared, when under pressure.
He had a tendency to yell.
Really loud.

When we got there,
“What if he dies?”
Started filling the air.
The air where music used to find it’s home.

When we got there, the music started to visit home
Only once or twice a week.
And it would come in secret.

When we got there, we both got more
Distant
Dark
Discrete

When I got there, I stole more.
From the same castle.
We both kept the lie.
When I got there, I knew he still played
Just not around me.
But he still played.
When I got there, I could still hear the memories
Slipping through the cracks of his locked door.

When that someone was in better health,
I suffered a scolding,
But we all began to breathe normally again.
But just as we caught our breath,
The country around us started taking its last.

When we got there, we saw the reality.
The harsh reality.
I was left heartbroken once more,
Something I knew all too well.
But he jumped right in to help.
And that’s why I loved him.
One of the many reasons why.

When we got there, he got ridiculed.
Abused, even.
All because
He
Wanted
To
Help.

When I got there, I couldn’t believe my eyes.
I was watching my nightmares come to life.
This had to be a joke.
One big, sick joke.
It had to be.
But it wasn’t.

When I got there, I was wide awake.
Even pinched my side for good measure.
Nope.
Wide awake.

When we got there, he had completely
Shut down
Shut off
Shut up

That night, when I got there, when my past came to stab me once again,
I didn’t call him.
I calmed myself down.
I read to myself.
I kept to myself.

When I got there, I started to regret never telling him how much I wanted to learn.
Learn how to create music from him.
How much I appreciated the memories he could play.
How the world stops spinning when the songs would start.

I regret never telling him because now that we’re here,
He doesn’t play his accordion anymore.