Its strains, recognizable, identifiable. I felt
superb, erudite, an epiphany of knowing. I had
grown used to hearing it throughout autumn
and into winter, piping out of my roommate's
cumbersome behemoth of a tape player, which
she had lugged along with her postage-stamp
sized underwear all the way from Switzerland
to our cozy dorm room sheltered by the Pine
Grove. But that night I stood, home for break,
doing laundry in the basement, radio on, my
parents somewhere upstairs, naive about their
daughter's impending genius, and there was the
music, lovely, sad, hopeful, tragic, something
dark I had come to know over myriad games
of backgammon, while drinking Russian Caravan
tea that had steeped in a pale yellow teapot.
Folding clothes, I looked up, amazed, conscious,
and called out to no one in particular, "Mozart's Requiem."
No comments:
Post a Comment