slate. capitol. cb [fin]

slate

Music is an art. It comes in many forms, each unique in its own way. People create it, (listen to it), discuss it, consume it; regurgitate, imitate, abbreviate. I don't know what my parents see in a violin. Beauty and grace. Refinement and attunement. I can agree on all that.

But it is also a fiddle.





I love the way the keys speak so clearly. "Has anyone ever tried playing it like this?"

My mother loves me.

"Stop, stop! Ayaan, darling- what are you doing? You were playing so perfectly, what's wrong? Are you alright?"

I play it again until she loosens her grip on my shoulder and begins to hum once more, swaying and humming beside me on the piano bench.





I hear my father say something later. It's a single sentence only slightly muffled by the empty halls filled with the sound of my sisters' shuffling sheets of music, slow sneaking footsteps, and steady bouts of snoring around the mansion.

"And yet none of it matters if our eldest goes out and ruins it!"

"For all of us."

The silence that follows makes me flinch.

But my father and I cooked omelets together the next morning for breakfast, sat together and looked out into the courtyard watching the sunrise. "Beautiful morning." I nod.

My father loves me.





"Do you- not talk?" His name is Indy. I nod and shake his hand. "Ahhh. Cool."

His boots are too big; they make their own clanky beat on the sidewalk. It goes with the pigeon coos and beeping garbage trucks. It's different; a cacophonous and lively symphony.  I think I'm enjoying it.

"So, you have no choice but to join my band, right?"

I think we might be friends.