He loves the sound of it.
Curious of horse hair and cherry wood.
Proudly declaring to himself that he’d learn this thing in a month.
He pulls the bow across…winces.
He likes the idea of it.
Anxious to know more, learn it, breathe it.
Angrily declaring he’d rather have a fist full of video games.
When its time to practice.
When its time to have a go at it for twenty-five minutes.
Songs that are classic but unknown to him.
He tightens each string…sighing.
He’s made it this far.
Thirteen years and he’s just picked it up.
His mother knows the notes, keeping time.
She can pick out tunes on ivory keys too large for her fingers, and yet…
And yet…he’s not there yet…her years are not his yet.
It’s magic…watching her dance…dance without sheets of music.
And in all his life, he’s never been so envious of mother making music.
Adam kneels upon the rug.
Sets himself up right. Positions and bent fingers.
He moves the bow….twenty-five minutes a day.
Slowly creaking clarifies into reality…realness…real music.
Slowly pulling and pushing into song.
Slowly getting the hang of it. Slower than Adam thought possible.
The violin settles against his chest, it hears the boy’s heart.
And it replies “yes, take me up. Twenty-five minutes a day”
It sends little songs down halls, down stairwells. Beyond walls.
And it says “I sing for Adam. I sing with Adam. I sing because of Adam”.
And one day, we shall all of us sing with him.
If he keeps going…. twenty-five minutes a day.
For a young man-child named Adam. This is just one piece of him.