Skating through the hustle and bustle of New York City, I was deluged in the evening lights just illuminating across the vicinity, making my way back home, wearied after a full week of work. I was not paying any attention to the surroundings except for the fact that I needed my bed badly and my safety.
Deftly flitting across the streets, passing by countless passers-by, lackadaisical to the wind around me. There was five more blocks before reaching my apartment, an emancipated girl was playing delicately in front of a semi-grand piano, etched with graffiti of the delinquencies crawling in this cesspool.
Mozart was swaying in the atmosphere tinged with a rustic city scent as I slowed down to savour the remnants of the little girl’s art. Her fingers intertwined gracefully across the black-and-white keys, stringing expressions that even words failed to bring out, she was dressed in tattered clothes and jeans, hair unkempt, even so exuding brilliance in her playing. Carefully punctuating the pedal to sustain some of the tunes, she modulated her dynamics according to her heart, nothing came closer to her feelings beautifying the dawn of the night.
No one else was standing to witness her act except for me, everyone else was busy chasing time when there was a splendor performed miraculously within the field of their vision. I gently placed my skateboard to the side of the piano, and tucked my bag tightly behind me, pacing myself to her.
“May I join you?” the little girl let out a puny space for me to sit. “Thank you.” I uttered under my breath. As my fingers got closer to the keys, a familiar spirit found its way back into my system, an old, begotten friend, sublime and sleek. Both of us struck a chord in unison, drifted majestically into a fusion of Bach and Tchaikovsky, garnished with J-pop.
I felt a subtle connection with the little girl, as if we had met before somewhere, sometime for some reasons unthinkable to the human mind. Conversing in ornaments and modulations, we crafted one of the most beautiful pieces of music in history, people did stop by, even some of the cars stopped beside the road, but nothing could distract our play for now.
Melodiously, our music overflowed the air around us, breathing in and out of the miraculous beauty painted across the skies. As we ended the piece with a broken chromatic, the little girl smiled broadly into me, I reciprocated with the brightest smile that I could muster while tears of joy rolled down my cheeks, vivid imagery of my forlorn dreams fluttered to life in my mind.
The little girl got out of the seat, tip-toed and wiped away my tears with her handkerchief, “believe,” she asserted, “you just need to believe, and dream again.” I thanked her, leaving the applauding crowd in a helter-skelter manner. The young child inside me was revived, and she looked exactly like the little girl, innocently chasing her dreams without any hindrance despite of countless adversaries.
Craving for more? Down below:
what we talk about when we talk about love by Raymond Carver (Book Review)
waiting for peach blossoms to bloom.
the quality of Being
not how, but when. (February Goals)