they lit up the night like candles in a dark church, singing their hymns, an outpouring of themselves. i sat there quietly, watching their hands dance across the strings and melodies tumble from their lips. helicopters flew overhead, cars drove by, chatter buzzed in the audience, but their songs rose above it all. blues, classical, rock, pop, jazz: each song told a story, and i was mesmerized.
there are many things i wish i could do, and one of them is make music. words might touch you, and art may stun you, but music...oh, music will move you without even trying. there is something so graceful, and soulful, and sexy about someone strumming a guitar or singing in your ear.
sometimes i imagine i am the one up there. and then i remember. i once was. am i the same girl who could play tarantella with her eyes closed? who fell in love with mozart the way her piano teacher warned she might? who felt the applause rattle her already shaking body after she didn't miss a note?
"i don't want to be a concert pianist," i said to my mom, making my plea.
"if you quit now, you will regret it," she said.
she was, of course, right.
he keeps trying to get me to sing, and i don't know why i refuse. how can i expect to sing a song if i don't even open my mouth?