Le Conseiller: Ladislav René Slavomir
Title: Beloved, You Will Be All Right Someday
AN: This is one of the journal entries for Ladislav. The only reason it has a title was because I had personally given it one before I decided it would be slid in the story with the others. Plus, I imagine Ladislav would actually title his journal entries beyond "april 3rd," or what have you.
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“My David, come by my side and play a tune to lift the spirits. Come play for your mother."
I was young then, maybe twelve at most, nine at youngest. Life then was simpler and more conservative. The most any of us got to being spontaneous was adding a different colored broach to our cream cravats. I, like most other boys, always found my mother’s voice to be soothing and natural. It was something to be lulled to at night and to sway to in the morning. Often I was requested to play simple tunes of happiness and gaiety to my mother; at that time it was easy, and often I was eager to please my mother with my ability to play the piano.
However, like all things, they must eventually end. My happiness was one of them, and as I grew older, maturity left me wanting greener fields, better skies, and yet: darker moods. Yet even during this time of agitated maturity I look back upon a mother whose glow never faded, whose fine eyes always showed joy to her son though her mind must have been tormented with worry. She was a steady woman, my mother, whose sternness was outmatched by her affections towards me.
My mother’s love was sturdy and while it had its cracks, it still gleamed in the sun, and filled to the rim of the preverbal glass. She was the cool breeze of a summer at the ocean, or the first ice in our harsh winters. I know vaguely now what love is like, what peace can be, and maybe I have experienced it once, maybe twice in my lifetime; but these memories, they truly were how I imagined love to be: a flute singing high.
And yet she has always remained a steady tune in my music, the sighing note, the break to joy, the grief turned to forced smiles to show that eventually better days would come. The embrace that makes you feel that yes, I can make it through today. I can break through the twilight into the waiting dawn. The thoughts that often, when looked back on, make one want to cry. That was my mother, and that was the tune I gave her in my compositions.
“Like God has David, his beloved, I have you, my own David-my own beloved.”
A touching of foreheads; that is the last memory I have of my mother and it is the strongest. A hello and a goodbye.
-Ladislav René Slavomir
AN: This is one of the journal entries for Ladislav. The only reason it has a title was because I had personally given it one before I decided it would be slid in the story with the others. Plus, I imagine Ladislav would actually title his journal entries beyond "april 3rd," or what have you.
--
“My David, come by my side and play a tune to lift the spirits. Come play for your mother."
I was young then, maybe twelve at most, nine at youngest. Life then was simpler and more conservative. The most any of us got to being spontaneous was adding a different colored broach to our cream cravats. I, like most other boys, always found my mother’s voice to be soothing and natural. It was something to be lulled to at night and to sway to in the morning. Often I was requested to play simple tunes of happiness and gaiety to my mother; at that time it was easy, and often I was eager to please my mother with my ability to play the piano.
However, like all things, they must eventually end. My happiness was one of them, and as I grew older, maturity left me wanting greener fields, better skies, and yet: darker moods. Yet even during this time of agitated maturity I look back upon a mother whose glow never faded, whose fine eyes always showed joy to her son though her mind must have been tormented with worry. She was a steady woman, my mother, whose sternness was outmatched by her affections towards me.
My mother’s love was sturdy and while it had its cracks, it still gleamed in the sun, and filled to the rim of the preverbal glass. She was the cool breeze of a summer at the ocean, or the first ice in our harsh winters. I know vaguely now what love is like, what peace can be, and maybe I have experienced it once, maybe twice in my lifetime; but these memories, they truly were how I imagined love to be: a flute singing high.
And yet she has always remained a steady tune in my music, the sighing note, the break to joy, the grief turned to forced smiles to show that eventually better days would come. The embrace that makes you feel that yes, I can make it through today. I can break through the twilight into the waiting dawn. The thoughts that often, when looked back on, make one want to cry. That was my mother, and that was the tune I gave her in my compositions.
“Like God has David, his beloved, I have you, my own David-my own beloved.”
A touching of foreheads; that is the last memory I have of my mother and it is the strongest. A hello and a goodbye.
-Ladislav René Slavomir