One day I will play the accordion up in heaven, among the clouds.
There, where the air has no weight, where sound does not hurt.
I will sit within the soft whiteness, and my fingers — those trembling witnesses of earthly imperfection — will move smoothly, confidently, without fear. There my hand will not make mistakes from the neurological disorder I have, because in eternity there is no misfired impulse, no confused message between brain and muscle, no clash between will and body.
There everything becomes pure intention, an endless flow of sound and light, a complete merging between what I want and what I can.
I see myself holding the accordion — that strange instrument suspended somewhere between breath and prayer.
Each opening of its folds is like inhaling the sky, each closing — exhaling the light.
Perhaps this is the prayer I’ve always searched for.
Not the one spoken aloud, but the one the body whispers when the mind gives up control.
There, above, perfection is not required.
And yet, I will play the dance without a mistake — not because I will have become flawless, but because the mistakes will have turned into music.
And the little angels will dance to it — lightly, almost imperceptibly, as if the air itself is moving.
They will hold hands, smiling, without looking at anyone in particular, because in heaven there is no audience, only participation.
Perhaps I will laugh, perhaps I will cry, but both will sound like the same chord — that deep, warm sound that comes not from the accordion but from the heart, once it stops being afraid.
Sometimes, when I am alone at night, I feel that heaven isn’t really far away.
It begins somewhere within me, in that quiet place that still believes pain can be transformed, that every tremor, every wrong note, every spasm is a path toward deeper understanding.
They say the body remembers everything.
I believe the soul does too — not with pain, but with a kind of quiet reverence for imperfection.
Maybe the neurological disorder is simply the body’s way of making me stop, of forcing me to listen to what is happening in the depths.
Perhaps my trembling hand isn’t weak at all — perhaps it is trying to say something that words cannot.
When I pray — though sometimes I’m not sure if what I do is prayer or just silence — I feel that God is not outside me, but in the very in-between, in the space between two notes, between two heartbeats, between fear and surrender.
There, I don’t need to be more than what I am.
There, every unfinished dance is enough.
I remember the first time I realized I would never play as before.
It felt like a small death — not dramatic, just a quiet withdrawing of light.
Since then, every time I sit with the accordion, it’s like meeting something lost yet still alive.
There is fear, there is shame, but there is also tenderness.
As if God stands beside me, waiting for me to try again, not correcting me, not counting mistakes.
He only watches, breathes with me, listens the way one listens to a child describing a dream.
Somewhere deep down I believe that music is a form of redemption.
That every note drawn out of pain is a way to restore order to the world, even for a single heartbeat.
Because in that heartbeat everything aligns — suffering and beauty, body and spirit, the seen and the unseen.
And when the accordion exhales its warm air and I follow, I feel myself becoming part of something larger, something that doesn’t need a name.
Perhaps that is heaven — not a place, but a state of consciousness in which resistance no longer exists.
Sometimes I wonder what will happen when I truly reach that “above” — the place everyone speaks of but no one can describe.
Will there be clouds and light, or simply a silence in which everything is understood without words?
Maybe there I won’t play with my hands, but with my entire being.
Maybe the accordion will just be a symbol, a shape that helps me now while I am still here — in a body that resists and prays at once.
And yet — there is something sacred in the human struggle with one’s own limitation.
In continuing to play even when you know it will never be perfect.
There lies a deep, human form of humility that the world rarely understands.
Because, in the end, God doesn’t ask us to be flawless — only to be real.
When my hand falters and a sound comes out wrong, I no longer get angry.
Sometimes I close my eyes and simply listen to how that false note blends into the air, becoming part of a larger harmony.
And then I understand — what we call a mistake on earth is, in heaven, simply another frequency.
There are nights when I cannot sleep.
Then I imagine sitting upon a cloud, the accordion light as breath, and I begin to play that dance I never managed to finish.
I see the little angels — those bodiless beings of joy — holding hands and dancing.
They don’t think of rhythm, they don’t worry whether their steps align.
They simply move in a circle, as life moves, as pain and comfort endlessly follow one another.
And I play.
And every sound that leaves me is a release from the weight of expectation.
Perhaps that image is my therapy, my form of psychoanalysis.
To see, in a dream, the part of myself that remains inaccessible to control.
The part that is closest to the archetype of healing — the angel with the accordion, who plays not for an audience, but for the heaven that opens from within.
When I think of it that way, I realize that illness is not an enemy but a doorway.
That the neurological noise in my body is a language my soul uses to get my attention.
Yes, there are days when it hurts.
There are days when I’m afraid I’ll never be able to play again.
But there are other days — quiet, transparent — when I feel that every lapse, every instability is part of the music of becoming human.
And then I calm down.
Then my breathing evens out, and the sound that emerges is almost perfect in its fragility.
When I think of heaven, I don’t associate it with distance.
I associate it with closeness — with that inner warmth that comes when you forgive yourself.
Perhaps there are no angels in white robes there, only people who have stopped fighting their own imperfections.
People who have understood that every mistake is a form of love, lost in translation.
And yet, in my version of heaven, there is music.
Not because there must be, but because every soul has its melody.
Mine will always be the accordion — breath, rhythm, air trembling between two worlds.
And when I finally rise to the place where pain no longer exists, I will play the dance without a single error.
Not because I will have conquered the illness, but because I will have made peace with it.
And then, perhaps, the little angels will smile — not because they are dancing to my tune, but because they have heard something that was always theirs — the sound of a human heart that has stopped resisting.
And so my quiet, endless concert ends — between body and light, between memory and forgetting.
In heaven, there are no wrong notes. There is only love, in different keys.
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