When I play

When I sit down on my stool with my cello it's as if everything else disappears. My hair acts as my own private stage curtain that I throw back to signify the beginning of my performance. I can hear my teacher's voice in the back of my mind, reminding me to breathe, reminding me to sit up taller, make my shoulders squarer, relax my stiffening wrist, and breathe again.

"Think water," she says, and I imagine my bones turning to liquid. "Conform to the music," and my bow takes the shape of the strings. "Picture what is yet to come," and I wonder if this advice is directed at my playing, or directed at life in general.

The acoustics in the music room at school are different from the sound made at home. The  space is more open, there are more people sitting around sneezing and coughing into their sleeves. I am nervous, at first, away from what is familiar in this huge empty void. But as soon as I make contact it is like my heart is playing pizzicato, plucking out the sounds, beating in time with the rhythm. As soon as I create the first sound, no matter where I am, I feel at home.