I knew I shouldn’t have come. The orchestra begins to play the gentle introduction; my ears succumb and the notes I have heard so many times before expertly unknit my defenses. I am not ready for what comes next, but I long for it and crave its violence. It arrives with perfect timing; the Cello. As the bow draws across the Cello strings, it is like a knife against my skin. I am cut, my wound screams out with emotion that has long been trapped inside. I expect the audience to turn towards me, aghast at the interruption. Nobody sees or hears, and the Cellist plays on unaware that she is ripping me apart with each stroke.
My first tear is involuntary but I would not stop it. I had feared she could touch me no longer, and prayed she could touch me no more. The Cello has brought her back to life, and made live once again the connection from her heart to mine.
