In a hall, surrounded by hundreds of people just like myself,
dressed in silk, satin, and tuxedos, shiny shoes and heels with straps
rested on the black and beige floor. Some tapped anxiously, others slowly,
with the rhythm of hot air and friction. But most kept still, bodies erect,
attentive to the sound carried through the round ceiling, plastered in gold.
Strings shook gently against horsehair and rosin as the soloist worshiped
his art in a cathedral filled with penitent prayers. He had played for years,
befriended music at birth. A genius, Mozart for a cello, imbedded in a small
Connecticut town, only discovered by a man walking past his spot on the street.
A gentle shake of the hand reverberated in the mind like the waves that pushed
against our eardrums. Bach, Beethoven, Vivaldi, one and all touched the strings,
and sang from their cords.
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