Reserved, good posture, eyes glow as she leans forward and smiles,
“Nangi-aka! Can you hear me?”
The voices come in rapid succession, but rarely overlap; a conversation.
A dark piece; the wood tuned down; an 18th-century Jazz.
“I mean, the war is over, right?”
I drown in the notes, powerless in the grasp of the Cello, and am thrown to and fro, stroke by stroke.
The piece gasps and grinds to a lonely halt; we burst with applause.
Overcome with love for all that was revealed, I up and leave to the kitchen where I curse under my breath.
Oh (holy) fuck!
Oh (holy) shit!
I meet her on the walk to the kitchen - that was incredible - and her smile bursts with the Glory of God.
“After twenty five years,
the war is over.”
