Rick Christiansen
Not a
Cabaret
He could’ve
bought a used car,
patched the
roof, left town—
but the
envelope in his pocket
kept his
pulse.
Ten
thousand in twenties,
his
father’s hands folded once more.
The note
said only:
Don’t
waste it.
He didn’t
drink.
Didn’t travel.
He wrote to
composers
whose work moved
through him
the way cold
finds bone.
Each letter
began:
I have a
request.
Write absence,
he said.
Write the
sound
of an empty
chair.
One sent a
cello piece
that
stuttered, then coughed.
Another
wrote for vibraphone
and
silence—
performed
once, sealed away.
In a church basement,
he played them alone.
Just a
piano bench creaking,
his own rhythmic
breath
and dust
rising
in the
shaft of a single bulb.
Halfway
through,
he sensed
his father—
standing by
the console stereo,
blowing
dust off old records.
Saying, listen,
as if the sound alone
would
repair, resound.
