A Saturday burst of fiction
And it came out all tender and sweet. Huh.
Instrument
Her wish was that their daughter be introduced to music. She’d told him her hope, her desire, clutching his hands tight as the cancer coursed through her body.
Their daughter had reached an age that seemed appropriate. He readied her for the music fair at school, told her she could pick any instrument she felt a connection. It was an indulgence, but his wife would have wanted it that way.
The hope was she’d pick the violin, or maybe the flute.
At worst, she’d find her muse in the clarinet, or the oboe, which he knew nothing about and always thought looked vaguely vulgar.
She walked by various teachers, being courteous to their questions, stopping once and again to touch brass, wood. She lingered for a time with the cellist, and he worried that the heft of the instrument would be too much so soon.
But she smiled and skipped away into where the percussionists were gathered. He froze, imagined the thumping headaches he’d suffer through those practices. She breezed through percussion and stopped. He watched as she clutched her tiny hands to her chest and nodded.
She stared at the harp, its massiveness relegated to a corner of the gym where there was little foot traffic.
The harpist let her run her fingers across the strings, talked about the grace of such a large and intimidating instrument.
He scratched at his hairline and wondered about finances, transportation, storage. She looked at him with puppy eyes and a thin, pleading smile.
“Honey, are you sure?”
“Oh, but daddy, yes,” she said. “I can make music for angels.”
Instrument
Her wish was that their daughter be introduced to music. She’d told him her hope, her desire, clutching his hands tight as the cancer coursed through her body.
Their daughter had reached an age that seemed appropriate. He readied her for the music fair at school, told her she could pick any instrument she felt a connection. It was an indulgence, but his wife would have wanted it that way.
The hope was she’d pick the violin, or maybe the flute.
At worst, she’d find her muse in the clarinet, or the oboe, which he knew nothing about and always thought looked vaguely vulgar.
She walked by various teachers, being courteous to their questions, stopping once and again to touch brass, wood. She lingered for a time with the cellist, and he worried that the heft of the instrument would be too much so soon.
But she smiled and skipped away into where the percussionists were gathered. He froze, imagined the thumping headaches he’d suffer through those practices. She breezed through percussion and stopped. He watched as she clutched her tiny hands to her chest and nodded.
She stared at the harp, its massiveness relegated to a corner of the gym where there was little foot traffic.
The harpist let her run her fingers across the strings, talked about the grace of such a large and intimidating instrument.
He scratched at his hairline and wondered about finances, transportation, storage. She looked at him with puppy eyes and a thin, pleading smile.
“Honey, are you sure?”
“Oh, but daddy, yes,” she said. “I can make music for angels.”
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