It's the long silences that are hardest to bear.
    Yet when sounds come: a burst of bird song; the rain on the roof; the wind through the eaves, I envy their melodies and rhythms. They remind me of the past when I too had the power of sound and could lift hearts, raise spirits and move people to tears. Each time my memories are stirred, the silence below becomes more oppressive.
    I've been propped up against this old trunk for too long. There's a pain in my neck, my whole body aches and my joints are stiff. Sometimes the sun finds my tiny attic window and gently warms me, but its visits are too rare and they no longer ward off the cold and the damp.
     Voices
     Startled, I listen to some new intriguing sounds below. They ebb and flow. Doors open and snap shut, drawers slide on their runners.
     The noises get louder and I'm aware of movement th  The hem of her dress brushes against me as her footsteps cross the floor. The warm light is blocked. The window is stiff and it creaks with age as it is pushed open, then the warmth returns with a gentle breeze.
     Their steps echo harshly on the bare boards as they move round the attic.
     "Well if it isn't your Granddad's old trunk of treasures!"
     A nasty scraping sound. They are moving my support and I tumble over and over. When I come to a rest, I'm relieved to find nothing is broken but the warming light no longer falls on me and now I'm hidden in the dark.
     "Granddad would disappear up here and rummage in this trunk for absolutely
ages. Sometimes he'd just sit on it and stare out of the window.
     "Is it locked?"
     "Let's find out.
     The lid of the trunk yawns wide to reveal its secrets. There is a rustling of papers and a scattering of boxes.
     "Most of this is before my time, even before he met your Gran."
     "Why is there all this music?"
     "He loved his music did your Granddad.  He used to play up here and when he got started it could be hours later before he would come back down."
     A tremor runs through me. Yes, I remember him too and a yearning fills me for past sounds: gentle waltzes rising and falling, one.. two.. three, one..
two.. three; simple haunting tunes with melodic lines that went on for ever; pounding, pulsating marches telling of glory and comrades fallen ... but not forgotten.
     And then like the links in a chain these memories lead me on to other times we had spent together. Those magic moments of quiet anticipation. The sound of starched shirts crackling and half-controlled coughs. And we were not alone - I can feel them all around me even now. Heightened  tension then glorious, triumphant sound everywhere, rhythmic, throbbing, advancing to crescendos, retreating to diminuendos, faint in the distance, close at hand. With intricate shades of light and dark that filled me with sensation until there was no room for any more and I wanted to cry out:
     "Enough! Let me rest."
     And that is all I can do now. Rest. He slowed down and those beautiful riots of harmony and vibration became less and less frequent. Then eventually he lost the strength to play at all. Even quietly, by himself. He would sometimes hum the tunes as he sat on the trunk. He nursed me then but it was not the same.
     As time passed, the memories became dim and the longing diminished. Then he stopped visiting. I could still hear him below but becoming more and more subdued. I turned to the sounds outside for company as all became silent downstairs.
     "What's this, Mum?"
     I am in the air. Small hands grab me, holding me awkwardly, turning me round and round. Soft lips apply themselves to my mouth, a sleeve wipes off the dust, then the mouth tries again. She blows vigorously. I do my best with the untutored breath she gives me but all I can manage is an awful shrieking sound. I feel  ashamed. Her soft hands grip me cruelly. She strains me almost to breaking point where I should be touched gently with the sort of love and care that will leave me tingling with pleasure.