He moves so fluidly that I bet water is jealous.
The bow is but an extension of his arm.
The instrument a vessel for his soul.
Eyes closed,
head bowed low,
it is as if he is praying while he plays.
Notes float through the air
vibrating in beautiful sound waves.
His whole body shakes with each accent and staccato.
He doesn’t need a sheet of paper to show him what to play.
His fingers just know.
The strings are memorized under his hands.
Soft and hard,
slow and fast,
breathy and breathless.
And a man four years older than him sits beside him
struggling to keep up.
I’ve never heard anything like it.
That is what true beauty is:
Elegant fingers dancing on
the strings of a well-tuned
cello.