The First Violinist: Up and Down

The little patterns of his finger's movements, dancing deftly down the nape of her neck, entrance and enchant me, the way the music does.

His fingers move and he holds her there, the muscles in his arm, defined I shamefully recognize, tense. And in his fingers the ligaments move over muscle and bone, the sinew's friction like strings on resin on strings.

Amongst the chaos of the carousel of bows moving up and down, like the horses on the ride at the fair, his face is still, calm, and concentrated, like the sea, and I watch contentedly, hearing his voice among the crashing waves, the way I know I'm not supposed to.

The purity, the un-contained perfection of his pitch, and how he makes her sing with skill and precision and simple movements; I'm enraptured.

And the horses move up and down, and, like a child's laugh over the music of the ride, his voice surpasses the rest.

And the music swells,

And they spin faster and faster and faster and ever faster.

Up and down, and up and down,

Until the orchestral merry-go-round slows to a sentimental pause.

Piano, and pianissimo,

And the ride slows, until...

The conductor lowers his arms,

But the boy-- my boy, my voice,

My angel,

Pauses, letting the moment linger.

The music isn't over for him quite yet, until he is forced to leave the ride.

The ride that I replay in my head

Until I fall asleep, dreaming

Of angels and fair-ground horses.