“I couldn’t begin to feel what that is like,” said the clarinet.
“That must be excruciating,” echoed the french horn.
The flute did not look up. Nor did he feel less self-pity. He had been given to a beginner. The flute had performed at the Met. At the Lyric. At the Palladium. The notes of Handel, Pachelbel…of his beloved Bach, had graced his keys and tone hole. Yet, yesterday he endured the agony of Three Blind Mice.
“Our sainted Beethoven!” exclaimed the clarinet. “Three Blind Mice? Really? How did you ever manage, my dear?”
“I don’t believe I know that one,” said the French horn. “Is that a developed theme on Farmer in the Dell?”
The flute smoldered. The French horn had played nothing but masterpieces since he was crafted – always in the hands of a virtuoso. Continue reading
Emmie walked up the path through the great green field across the street from her house to the friendly woods with the creek winding through them – and the creaky bridge over it – to play Poohsticks. They were the scary woods at night, but that is a different story.
“Psst. Oh-vuh he-uh.”
“What,” Emmie asked to nowhere.
“Over here. Look up.”
A crow perched on the lower branch of an Oak tree, shielded by drooping leaves.
“That’s a nice shirt you got thay-uh. What’d’ya want fuh it?”
“Excuse me?” Asked Esmeralda. Continue reading
Esmeralda held her father’s hand crossing the street in front of the great green field. She stepped onto the curb and let go – her father tried to hang on, but Emmie won – and sprinted through the field sloping to the stream that fed the wide pond beyond the trees.
Emmie toed the polished stones in the stream’s bed to make sure they would not move as she stepped from one to the other, the cold current flowing around them. When she felt unsure she put up her left hand, her eyes still studying the stones. Her father’s hand was there to steady her. He kept pace on the bank. Emmie withdrew her hand when her confidence returned. She continued on her path of stones until the stream widened, meeting the pond. She stopped on the last stone, raised her arms and her father swung her onto the grassy bank. She ran along the pond’s raised embankment to their favorite spot. Her father followed, walking. Carrying the bread.
Emmie waited on a wide white embankment-stone a couple of feet above the pond’s surface. As soon as they saw her, they would come. She was Esmeralda. Continue reading
There was a girl with brown eyes and long brown hair who lived in the big blue house on the corner with the swingset in the backyard. I think we know who we are talking about but I’m not going to say her name. Esmeralda.
“Emmie,” called her mom, “it’s getting on to dinner, come wash your hands.”
Emmie was at the top of her favorite arc and couldn’t reply just then. The arc that would finally take her to the clouds. The best of all possible arcs. The sky was right there. The blue – if it were any closer – would stain her yellow shirt with the pink crane over her heart, forever. She was almost there.
“Ez Mer El Duh, did you hear me?”
Emmie was falling to Earth, the arc had passed. It had been her favorite arc.
“But there will be others. Maybe even better. Maybe arcs so perfect that…”
“Did you hear me, Esmeralda?”
Her mom slid open the patio door, holding a pair of tongs.
“Chicken, again?” Continue reading