Deep Magic

Holy - 329 Words

Lindsey Thompson

You see her sitting gracefully upon a proper-posture chair, holding her gift like her breath underwater. She is without eminence, surrounded by others who seem to play as well as she. Her left hand twitches as she glances over the pages before her, then all is silent as she stands to give the tuning pitch. You are only here to relieve the in-house engineer during dress rehearsal; you notice but care not that the proper etiquette of orchestral concerts has been breached. The strides of the conductor conquer the stage, and you prepare to do your job.

The rehearsal goes without incident. Her face glows no more or less than her section-mates, she appears to miss no notes more than her neighbors, and her participation in the orchestra makes no noticeable mark. She blends, just as she should.

As you walk the halls, winding down the session and finishing up your requirements, you hear a stringed melody, as though pulled from the lips in one smooth sweep. Each legato swell, each note kissed with rubato grace, each sigh of heavenly glissandos seduces your ear and pulls your body around the corner.

There, she moves with her well-loved violin, radiating through her smile and her very being, swaying with bare feet as she blesses the air with her crafted song. You watch her breathe with each phrase, sigh with each sweep of the bow, and you listen to her existence poured out before you. This, you think, is what brought Lazarus back from the grave; this turned the hearts of Ninevah; this created the sky and sea, pulled the light from out of the dark. Captivated, you stand on holy ground.

Your consciousness is flooded with horns chasing her melody by thirds, with cellos rumbling in sultry counterpoint, with flutes flying in the skies above her deep magic. You feel a symphony for her pulse through each limb and torrent in each heartbeat, all keeping time with her steps.


Mirrorball - Peter Gabriel