Sickness

I am surprised that I’ve lived so long,
Long enough to graduate from high school.

I’m so excited to be starting college in a few weeks. I sent in my applications, and have gotten back many letters. At this point, I have already chosen where I want to go, and I’m starting to pack.

Dartmouth.

Yes, it’s Ivy League, and it has an excellent music program. I know it's hard to get into. And though it would have been nice to be accepted into Julliard, or Berklee, I didn’t make the cut. I wasn’t good enough.
I’m never good enough.

When I was about seven years old, my mom and I were walking through one of our town’s parks. The once green leaves on the trees had already fallen to the ground, leaving them naked in our presence. We passed an older looking man in a ragged, plaid green coat, dirty pants, torn gloves, and a bowler hat with dark, wispy curls of hair coming out of it. He hadn’t shaved in weeks. Next to him was an open black case that had maybe one or two dollars in it. On his lap, was something I’d never seen before. It was made out of wood, and I can picture it clearly in my mind.

I remember how sad he looked.

“Mommy, can we go talk to the man?”

“Darling, I don’t know…”

“Please?”

“Oh…alright, let’s go.”

We walked over to where he was sitting in the grass. I pointed to the thing in his lap.

“What does that do?”

He looked up at me with gentle eyes.

“It makes music.”

“Can you make music for me?”

He looked at the instrument, and then at the case next to him.

“No, I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I seem to have forgotten how. People stopped listening, and I stopped remembering.”

I let go of my mother’s hand and sat down next to him.

“I want to listen.”

He almost cried when I said that. I could see the tears forming in his tired old eyes.

“I can’t,” he whispered.

I looked at my mother. She nodded at me to keep talking to him.

“Then teach me,” I said.

The man looked at me in disbelief, but I held out my hands indicating that I wanted to play. He put the rounder end of the instrument under my chin, and the thinner part in my left hand. Then he took out a long wooden stick, and showed me how to hold it in my right hand. I noticed that there were strings on the instrument, and hair like material on the stick. He told me to make one long sweeping motion against some the strings with the stick. When I did, it made a beautiful sound, like nothing I’d ever heard before.

Something happened that day. Something magical. I’m almost positive that it was my imagination, but I swore I could see the leaves turning green again. And I know that the man was happy. There was a light in his eyes now that he was teaching me how to play this instrument.

From that day on, once a week, my mother paid that man three dollars for every half hour he taught me.
And more and more people began to listen.
And the man remembered more and more.

John has been my viola teacher for eleven years now. He helped me with my application for college, and imparted on me wisdom from a generation of simplicity and beauty. I learned everything. All the music in the world, no matter how advanced, could never satisfy me.

That is why I am currently working on composing a piece.
It will reflect, without words, the bond John and I had.

It is the only way I know how to thank him.