That Sound

It's crazy this going-to-his-concerts thing. I mean it's wonderful of course, but it's so difficult.

Inevitably when the students come onto the stage or when the lights dim or when the kids start playing, she glances over. She tries to be subtle, barely turning her head, but I know she's watching me, waiting for the inevitable. Looking for the tears.

A few weeks ago we were in a spacious auditorium with Middle School students from all around the region seated in black ties, white shirts, and dresses on stage. The lights dimmed. The first violin entered and played his tuning note. The rest of the orchestra followed.

You know the sound. The warming up of an orchestra. All the strings and the wind and brass.

I first heard an orchestra warming up when I was very young. It was on a record album that my brother and I played over and over, year after year. It was the tuning of the orchestra before Senor Pizzicato walked out on stage and tapped his baton. It was the warming up while Tubby the Tuba quietly lamented his oompa lot. That sound is burned into the deepest corners of my memory.

I knew that sound. And I gasped, audibly. And sobbed.

They hadn't even begun the program. She didn't even have to glance over at me. Sheesh.

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