Peklektru – Għadna Għaddejjin

A story in three parts

part ii

2022

What a horrible year. It didn’t start out that way. Or at least, I didn’t recognise the first warning signs of the storm that was to come. I invested in some equipment so I could start playing and recording again. “Invested,” people say. And when you hear that phrase, you can be pretty confident that they are telling you they spent more money than they are comfortable admitting. Time had moved on. Things had changed. If in 2005 I could work on a portable studio with a CD-ROM, in 2022 you’d be lucky to find a CD drive on a brand new laptop.

If this were a film, this would have been the perfect moment for a montage of me plugging in jacks, finding my bearings with the new gear, scratching my head trying to understand the intricacies of software functions, all to an upbeat song in the background, until the setbacks are overcome and I emerge ready to write a song that saves the universe — like something out of Bill and Ted. This was in April. I was happy. And even though when I went to buy the Telecaster I had laid my eyes on, I was told that someone else had bought it just two days prior, the shop assistant assured me they could get me another one.

Now I was waiting for it to arrive. There were, however, far too many things I wasn’t expecting to arrive. This was 2022.

In February, a friend from my youth had already tragically lost his life in a traffic accident. But May seemed to change gear. The guitar did arrive, yes. But on the very day I was meant to go pick it up, I received the heartbreaking news that my aunty Antoinette had died. A bolt out of the blue. There is little I can say to explain the significance of this loss. If you knew Antoinette, you may begin to understand. If you didn’t, I don’t think words can be enough to explain it. It was also in May that we received news of Ian’s diagnosis. A few weeks earlier I was telling him about the new guitar. You try to grasp onto some hope that we’ll look back on all this unscathed but reality doesn’t bend to anyone’s hopes. A few months later, etched into my mind forever, we had our last conversation. In May I also received a message from Michael—more sad news. Around that time, my ringtone became a little traumatic. Every time the phone rang, it felt like it was to herald in some brand new piece of awful news. It was as if, all of a sudden, people I knew—some from afar, others literally my whole life, and those in between, who had, over time, become family—started disappearing at an abnormal rate. The year went on like that. Back from a funeral, you hear about another diagnosis. Then Phyllis. Against this backdrop I had to also look into my mother’s eyes and do my utmost to see past her dementia, which by then had almost dismantled her completely.

You know life is fragile and precious, and that you need to be present for the beautiful moments it offers —but in these circumstances everything seems to crystallise. You start seeing things a little bit more clearly. Maybe an existential or a midlife crisis. Maybe a bit of wisdom about what really matters in life. What’s certain is that the death of those close to you changes you. Death steals a relative or a friend, gnaws away at your heart, hollows you out, and sculpts you. It reshapes you, with a missing piece or two. It is with this new shape that you’re sent to face the rest of your days.

It was with this shape that I had to carry on. And with a new guitar in hand.

Maybe you remember from school Anton Buttigieg’s poem “Il-Kebbies tal-Fanali” . I have the impression it was a popular poem among us students—probably because it’s short. Sometimes I take my copy of Il-Qawsalla down from the shelves, flip through the pages and read it again. I doubt I ever truly remembered the exact words by heart. But I remember the sentiment. For Buttigieg, Poetry was a lifesaver. And in light of 2022, I can say the same about music.

Note from the editor: The last part of the story shall feature tomorrow 6th February