The Bitter Wine Memento
Superfluous Air
Laura played the cello. Whenever Laura would play the cello I was banned from the living room. She said music needed air to live, just like humans and if I was breathing all the air, it would die. Our living room had windows and often I would sit in the arbour, just looking at her through the glass filled with sun reflections. Through invisible cracks in the wall I could hear the ripe cello music flow and breathe, breathe and expand, exhale and breathe again. I would watch her hands slide over the strings, plucking them whichever way made the best sound. I was never a creative person, and such a thing as learning an instrument had escaped my youth. It was not that I couldn’t enjoy a haunting piece by Mozart when played correctly. But I ended up in the listening side of the piece. Somehow I had taken for granted that I was always going to be the listener, not the player.
Laura was more than a player. She didn’t just play the music, but she mothered it and shaped it with her hands. She could play the most obvious of pieces, “Air on the G String” or Beethoven’s 9th Symphony, and by the slick twist of her fingers make it her own. She could compose it all over again, if she only had the air.
Some nights as we would be getting ready for bed, she would come up to me and kiss me. It would be an implication, subtle but determined. I would in return bring her bow.
The symphonies always seemed to end too quickly, and the sonatas felt second long. When she put her bow down my answer would often be the same.
"Once again, play it one more time. Just once more."
To that she would smile and without rejection pick up the bow. She wouldn’t mind playing for me then even if I was in her air.
Once, when I asked her why that was she told me that when love exists air is superfluous. Then she put her hands around mine. She looked at me with golden eyes and I loved her. I needed no further explanation at the time. It seemed so clear.
I knew Laura for five years. For years I was not even aware of her, and for many more after that would I still think of her. She was so brief, but lasted much longer inside of me. Too long for my own good and still not long enough. I cannot recollect when it ended or if it is only still beginning, the love. But it has been there and is all but brief. It is gargantuan, and devastating, devastating.
Laura was more than a player. She didn’t just play the music, but she mothered it and shaped it with her hands. She could play the most obvious of pieces, “Air on the G String” or Beethoven’s 9th Symphony, and by the slick twist of her fingers make it her own. She could compose it all over again, if she only had the air.
Some nights as we would be getting ready for bed, she would come up to me and kiss me. It would be an implication, subtle but determined. I would in return bring her bow.
The symphonies always seemed to end too quickly, and the sonatas felt second long. When she put her bow down my answer would often be the same.
"Once again, play it one more time. Just once more."
To that she would smile and without rejection pick up the bow. She wouldn’t mind playing for me then even if I was in her air.
Once, when I asked her why that was she told me that when love exists air is superfluous. Then she put her hands around mine. She looked at me with golden eyes and I loved her. I needed no further explanation at the time. It seemed so clear.
I knew Laura for five years. For years I was not even aware of her, and for many more after that would I still think of her. She was so brief, but lasted much longer inside of me. Too long for my own good and still not long enough. I cannot recollect when it ended or if it is only still beginning, the love. But it has been there and is all but brief. It is gargantuan, and devastating, devastating.