The Morning Song

As the morning sun crept through my window, I watched the light dance off my cello like a thousand tiny diamonds. Moved by the beauty, my heart ached to play. To make music so soft, so delicate, one touch could break it. But yet to make it so firm, so alive, that the spirit could never be wounded. So drawn I was, I decided to dedicate this song to him.

Yes, I thought. To him.

The note started out no more than a whisper on the moist morning air. It reverberated in my mind, dwelled on my heart. It was practically begging me to play more. So I did. I played, started out soft, then crescendoed to forte. My soul felt like it was a butterfly just released from a very small net. It felt as if I could touch the music, breathe it in breathe it out. As I de-crescendoed to the ending, I ran out of breathe. It was as if all the life had been sucked out of me. I went to my bed to lay down.

As I did, I could have sworn I heard a violin playing the same song in the background. Then it struck me- it was him.

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