A Nameless Song In My Book
"You're mighty while you're young
And you speak like you haven't just begun..."
|"Pick this oneeeeeeee," the piano angels whispered.|
Here's a story from the depths of the Heights: We met Maggie and Petrof the other day.
Maggie knows the language like the back of her eagerly gesturing hands. If you say grumble and then wince at a Yamaha, she knows what you really need to touch. If you touch everything, she just smiles.
She pointed to him waiting patiently at the melding point of the room and the hall.
"I want you to play this one!" she said with a knowing smile, hurrying to grab a white bench.
His mute broken, a chip in his collarbone, I sat down and heard gold: the deep grumble, a European sound.
"Come touch this one!"
|The proud owner and his piece of 1985.|
"It has character, just like you!" she explained.
Petrof comes home next week. Knowing him by proxy will be a pleasure and a joy.
|[exaggerated collective gasp]|
A new season begins, and the music is changing again, regrouping, reorganizing. The focus has shifted from behind to right in front of me. I'm remembering that I do have a story to tell and something to say. I don't know how it will be received; that's not for me to know anyway. Making it permanent still makes me nervous, but the part after that, I'm beginning to understand, after having watched over a few shoulders. I'm excited!
November is a solid idea, a fixed point. The birds don't come anymore, but that's alright. They were here, I kept a diligent history of them, and know what this is going to be about. My hands are tied, but they're also full: of good things, of difficult things, of prayers.
Grand professions aside, something inside is standing up to meet all things with hope. Can't explain it further than that or be a detailed mess, but beneath it all, hope and peace.
Hope and peace.
"But they that wait upon the shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles, they shall run and not be weary, and they shall walk and not faint."
- Isaiah 40:31