A tragicomic operatic symphony in three parts.

There was music and noise and lulls and lullabies and preludes and leitmotifs. I’ve transcribed the primary movements from their musical form into a form of narrative opera written out in words rather than musical notation. It’s an early draft. Also, I’ve skipped major parts, as they’re under construction still, and I don’t want any Salieris ripping off my unfinished symphony. As it is, here it is in present form…

Movement 1 (Sonata)

Exposition

The night was long and the festivities began early on this heroic day of days; pre-dawn the trumpets are represented by two small figures; diminutive anti-heroes known to this narrative as Little Son and Medium Son. These trumpets blast with all their enthusiasm and joy and wait loudly for the yellow to displace the black and then the gray outside. Eventually the dawn escapes the night and we move past the prelude into the opening act. Father and Mother shake off the trumpets and make preparations for this day of days ahead.

Why is it a Day of Days? It’s Tuesday. Why wouldn’t it be?

Development

Father and Mother prepare a beverage to enlighten their path throughout this Festival of Days (Tuesday). The beverage itself is anti-climactic in relation to their savored anticipation of experiencing the beverage itself. Upon drinking this most special of beverages, the continued consumption of each precious mug experiences delays upon delays, including, but not limited to delays pertaining to the wiping of young buttocks - which could perhaps be characters we have already been introduced to in the Exposition above - as well as the delays of kindly guiding other characters through an educational journey composed almost entirely of Kindness, Wisdom, and the Most Infinite Patience.

We see the early foreshadowing of future conflict as Little Son and Medium Son vie for various positions of favor with Mother.

I want to sit by her!
I want her to sit by me!
I want to hold her hand!
I want her to read me a book, not Father!
I want her to change my diaper (not Father)!

We see the battle lines drawn in a modernistic interpretation of a thousand tales going back to Cain-Abel, Romulus-Remus, Liam-Noel. Brothers striving for their Mother’s affection; an affection that is liberally given out freely and without recompense, save the affections and adulations of the two in conflict. It doesn’t matter how much is doled out, what matters is that each is able to quantify it as a greater amount than given to the other. This is not encouraged or tolerated by the Mother, she is a flawed yet great hero in this epic, an active protagonist and victorious in so much, yet unable to effect or negotiate a truce between the knights-to-be battling for her attention.

This stage of our musical narrative is filled with whimsical notes and counter-rhythms often punctuated by what some might perceive as an excessive amount of percussion and cowbell. But amidst the thickening melody are recurring grace notes and exotic instrumentations difficult to categorize. It becomes evident as we become absorbed in this narrative that Father and Mother are not merely the striking and beautiful protagonists, but also, in a surprising stroke of meta, are de facto conductors of this symphony as well, making this piece sort of like the Adaptation of musicals. It’s hard to wrap our minds around, but don’t overthink: let the beauty, in sight and sound, carry you along upon this tidal wave.

Recapitulation

We return to the couple - Father and Mother - preparing additional beverages for themselves in what is becoming a symbol or motif. The strings will carry this section, and a Philip Glass-esque piano tinkling will slowly unbury itself from underneath the other sections and began to emerge in a sort of metamorphosis. Except in this case, there’s no butterfly in the next act. Even better:

a goat.

Movement 2 (slow)

Mother has taken Medium Son on a brief voyage for the Tuesday holiday; an event from which he will return with much to boast as it spills from the grinning lips of a self-satisfied warrior who has successfully bested his younger brother, Little Son, by spending the goat’s share of the day with his Mother, as opposed to the Silver Medallion his lowlier sibling was awarded in the form of a date with his Father.

The smallest boy trudges across a pastoral field on a gray winter day with his father. They hold hands. This is a moment, a beautiful moment. They are connected. The boy speaks, the words, we just know, because of the idyllic setting, will be warm, profound, meaningful:

“You’re not my dad,” Little Son says.
The father asks for clarification.
The boy repeats: “You’re not my dad.”

The Father says: “Yes, I am, in fact, your father.”

Father helps Boy over the fence and they continue holding hands across the field as a goat follows. The boy trips repeatedly, as he wore boots that were far too large for him; a choice of his own previous choosing.

Movement 2 (Dance)

The Father and two of his sons explore the Forbidden Forest. It is dangerous, but they are strong and they are together. Plus, their guard goat stays close at every turn. Raindrops droop off green leaves and gargantuan branches snap as they clamber up and over and across the dense evergreen thickets and invading berry vegetation.

It is dangerous, so dangerous, but the air is also thick with music and fog and possibility. The possibility of discovery, the possibility of a fresh experience on a day that’s never been lived quite like this, yet is vaguely familiar like a dream within a dream from ten years ago, or perhaps the reminder that you actually came to this exact spot yesterday. Perhaps it was that thought that scampered through Father’s mind, and the boys’ hive mind, and the goat’s Socratic mind, as they scuffed and skipped and danced their way through the thick leaves and wintery bramble.

Finale

The night is silent and a family gathers in quiet reverence to close out the day; a day rich in experiences and memories and volatile in its dynamic range. They are together, in harmony, until at last, in a last explosion of leitmotif, the two boys duel over the object d’affection, their mother, in a fiery duel of words and emotions:

“I want to sit by Mama!”
- No, I want to sit on Mama!”
”Well I’m going to hold her hand!”
-No, I’M going to hold her hand!
(together) Can you lay by us Mama, and can Daddy not?

The Parents tuck in their children lovingly; their loving tuck-in returned affectionally at fifty percent capacity; that is to say, returned to one and not the other.

The Littlest Boy, in the still of the dark, puts a final crescendo on the piece:

“I don’t love you Daddy.”

Yes you do, his mother reminds him.

No I don’t, he reminds her insistently in the dark.

A few feet away, Father lies with Medium Boy, squeezing his hand in the blackness. “I love you,” he whispers.

“Love you,” the son whispers faintly.

Would you like me to stay, or would you like me to go? asks Father.

“Well,” the boy whispers kindly, “I’d like you to go now.”

Okay, Father says quietly, relinquishing the soft cherubic hand.

“But…” the boy continues…”…I’ll come into your room during the night pretty soon and snuggle with you, okay?”

Okay, Father says,

and the curtain closes.