Writing Two - Descriptive Writing - "The Organ"

Writing #2 – Descriptive Writing
"The Organ"
By: Deylah McCarty

Waiting for me in the old garage room, my organ sits, an old, patient friend. Bathed in dust, and subdued in shadow, my organ does not mind. It waits calmly for my return each day, for me to touch its cold keys, so cracked and rough. In the organ room, it is a different world. The farthest wall is wide, filled entirely with the looming organ, standing tall like a sentry. The air is warm and moist, and dust floats past my vision when I open the door, blowing a gentle gust across the floor. There is no light in the organ room; only a clouded, cracked window that allows a sliver of sunlight to pour onto the floor. I take my time to walk across the creaky floor, sneaking as if I may wake the organ from a deep slumber. I sit down quietly, and prepare to play. My fingers move gracefully, playing out a silent tune as I hum and imagine the deep, windy sound of air traveling through the organ’s pipes. I move to my organ’s side, looking up through the dusty air to the stained brass pipes, reaching up, cold and lonely; the tallest brushes the ceiling. I touch the cold metal, tarnished and old, and smile at my warped reflection in the brass mirrors.

Many days I have spent, sitting with my organ, playing silent compositions as I inhaled the musty old air. I can hear the organ play in my mind, a sweet, grand sound. Without my imagination, all I would hear is the old piano chair groaning against my weight, complaining, and the squeaky old floorboards, unaccustomed to my presence. I try to visit my old organ every day, but I begin to realize that I am avoiding doing so. Slowly I stop going into my organ’s old chamber, for fear that I will seep into a depression at seeing it so blank and unused. I can no longer bear the moldy scent, the silence, the dark dankness, nor the loneliness that lurks in my organ’s room.

Months pass. I no longer can hear the organ play in my mind. Instead, I play my electric piano, a tune that I don’t have to imagine. The chair I sit in is perfectly quiet, and the floor makes no complaint of my footsteps. I soon begin to stop thinking about my organ. It becomes a piece of old junk that clutters my mind as much as the room it inhabits. The organ haunts me, crying out in a silent plea for me to please visit it, don’t ignore it, to stay with it. I begin to grow anxious for a solution, until one becomes very clear to me: I have to get rid of the organ.

The solution! A young instrument collector came and looked at my organ, poking here and tapping there as I watched with the eyes of a protective mother. He tapped his clean-shaven chin, slowly filling the room with the deep, acrid scent of his expensive cologne, which was most definitely not worth the price. He pondered, mumbling to his clipboard, and finally came to a joyous conclusion: "This organ of yours is very old, but can be repaired. My company will buy it from you for $100,000."

Grand magnificence awaits on the spacious stage, flourishing in its newfound beauty and appeal. I feel a buzz of excitement sparkle through me, ecstatic about this now beautiful organ of mine. No longer does it make me feel dark and saddened, and no longer is it a burden on my shoulders. Care-given and fixed to new, I barely recognize the magnificent object against the stage wall, towering above all other instruments. The brass pipes rise high, polished, gleaming bright in the stage lights. Nothing compares to its grand elegance, but I can still remember sitting with my organ in its big, moldy room, dreaming of its sound, inhaling its musty scent. I still smell it as I watch my organ on the stage, and it still makes my nose twitch.

The organ is played and I clap, even cry. My old, weak organ is reborn! So many times I had sat with my organ, playing those silent melodies, but now my wonderful, rough-keyed organ is played, and the sound, oh the sound! Such a magnificent, melodic tune, so sweet and pure to the ears. My organ pierces the silence like a golden-armored warrior. The pipes tremble, breaching the silence they had held so long. My imagined melody is made real! I smile in pure joy at my organ. My beautiful, dustless organ.