He folded his body nearly in half.
A tall gangly frame of a man with kind eyes.
She sat with auburn tangles, unbrushed today.
Church had been a blur, everything has and I cling to a moment of rest and observation, a moment of sanity pressing myself into the red theater seats.
He offered a few minutes of individual instruction after rehearsal.
My thoughts drift back to the house, in shambles with leaks and brokenness, the half reconstructed porch, washing dishes campstyle, tossing water off it, unintentionally feeding the overgrown weeds demanding attention.
But in this small theater music is played, broken and whining, tempo subsiding. Strings pressed between flesh and wooden necks arching over children’s shoulders. The cello seems to swallow her up, recent growth has left her with long arms and legs, the progress of life growing my child into a woman far too soon. But she reaches well around the belly of it now.
“When you slide the bow like this you can see the string move in circle that kind of looks like a halo,” he played some more, “do you see?” The instrument in the hands of the kind of expert that hours of practice, talent and calluses produce, he is a master of his art.
When someone loves something they can’t help sharing it with others hoping to impart some of what they find in it, may it be peace, or joy, pleasure or a sense of accomplishment. They have loved something well and he does, and this he shares. His heart poured out on strings to teach each child, and right now, in this moment, it’s my child he teaches and inspiration settles into the gray spaces.
She nods first no, watches as he plays, then yes.
“That’s how you know, that’s when the note is just right,” he says and smiles up at her.
She nods again, pushes glasses back onto her face and smiles the one that says, I think I know what you’re talking about. He gives her the bow and watches. She bites her bottom lip and tries again.
A moment of clarity and all disappears, the broken sink, the porch in shambles, the warped cabinets that needs to be torn out now and the quick coming of graduation for the eldest of my children. I close my eyes and I see Him, with the anticipation of a halo moment when I make an attempt to imitate my master. Just one note, one moment of trusting Him. I press my fingers to bone and make an attempt, at patience, at faith, just once... and my heart plays a note, a note that reverberates my soul, the kind of note with a halo.
Linking up for Imperfect Prose... I like the feel of this place. Join me, won't you? www.canvaschild.com
