We met for the first time at a youth orchestra rehearsal.
I glanced up from my first cello seat. Your hair shone softly in the warm lighting. The harp hid you, but I noticed the way your fingers effortlessly flowed across the strings. If playing an instrument was a car, you hit the gas pedal while daydreaming and still stayed in control. It was captivating to watch. The rest of the room was filled with sounds of procrastinated practicing despite the fact that we had received music beforehand. You looked so full of life and energy. Life and energy I lacked. Opposites attract, I suppose.
Looking at the past is looking through a one way window. No one can change anything, but that isn’t
going to stop me from banging against the glass.
We started to hang out together after rehearsal. You must’ve approached me first because I was too shy to even look at you directly. It was already autumn at this point. Autumn, a season of pumpkin pie, of crunchy leaves, of soft cardigans. Autumn, a burst of color right before dull winter landscapes and numbing winds. Autumn, a season of your cream-colored turtleneck against backdrops of gold and crimson.
In this world, there aren’t a lot of original duets for cello and harp.
“You should compose something for cello and harp.”
I laughed.
“I know you ‘dabble’ in composing.”
My cheeks flushed as red as the crimson leaves of autumn from 2 months ago. “Maybe eventually,” I
mumbled gently.
For the record, I did compose it. Just too late.
Winter. A season of long nights, of slushy, tainted snow, of cold air penetrating even the thickest layers of clothes. Winter. A gloomy time of blizzards before spring rains wash everything and nothing away. Winter. A season of my dark trench coat against your grey gravestone.
Does it matter what took you from the world?
The past is a one way window. I can’t get through the glass.
Spring never stopped raining. Sometime later–I no longer kept track– flowers started blooming and new leaves peeked out from bare branches. I stayed behind in winter. I was the muddy blob of snow that keeps getting run over by cars. Cars that had drivers who would go at top speed while daydreaming and staying in control. The duet I composed for us was shoved into the back of my closet to collect dust.
Today, I visit the room where we first met. It’s been 5 full cycles of winters since my last taste of autumn. Maybe it’s a coincidence, but the last person who used the building’s harp you used to practice on forgot to cover it. I start to imagine how you would’ve played the duet. I imagine how it would’ve sounded like, us together. Wishful thinking gets you nowhere, I start to reprimand myself, yet an image of you appears at the lone harp. Neither do hallucinations, I smile bitterly, but...what if…
You sit at your harp, and I at my cello. We bathe in the stagelight. Breathe in, breathe out. We make eye contact, and you start playing the first set of water-like arpeggios that send me drifting into memories.
I think summer might finally come.
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