A Thousand Boy Kisses(78)

Of course, it was pitch-perfect.

I shuffled to the edge of the seat, planting my feet down on the wooden floor until I felt ready and primed.

Then I allowed myself to look up. I tilted my chin to the spotlight as if it were the sun. Inhaling a deep breath, I closed my eyes, then connected my bow to the string.

And I played.

The first notes of the Bach Prelude flowed from my bow to the string and out to the hall, rushing forth to fill the large room with the heavenly sounds. I swayed as the music took me in its embrace, pouring from me, exposing my soul for everyone to hear.

And in my head the hall was packed. Every seat was occupied as aficionados listened to me play. Listened to music that demanded to be heard. Played such melodies that not a dry eye could be found in the house. Exuded such passion that all hearts would be filled and spirits would be touched.

I smiled under the heat of the light, which was warming my muscles and extinguishing their pain. The piece drew to a close. Then I struck up another. I played and I played until so much time had passed that I could feel my fingers beginning ache.

I lifted the bow, a gaping silence now shrouding the hall. I let a tear fall as I thought of what to play next. What I knew I would play next. What I must play next.

The one piece of music that I dreamed I would play on this prestigious stage. The one piece that spoke to my soul like no other. The one piece that would have a presence here long after I was gone. The one I would play as a farewell to my passion. After hearing its perfect echo in this magnificent hall, I would not, could not, play it ever again. There would be no more cello for me.

This had to be where I left this part of my heart. This would be where I said goodbye to the passion that had kept me strong, that had been my savior in the times I grew lost and alone.

This would be where the notes were left to dance in the air for eternity.

I felt a tremble in my hands as I paused before I began. I felt the tears flowing thick and fast, but they weren’t in sadness. They were for two fast friends—the music and the life that created it—telling one another that they had to part, but that one day, someday, they would be together again.

Counting myself in, I placed the bow on the string and let “The Swan” from Carnival of the Animals begin. As my now-steady hands began to create the music I adored so much, I felt a lump fill my throat. Each note was a whispered prayer, and each crescendo was a loudly sung hymn, to the God that gave me this gift. Gave me the gift of playing music, of feeling it in my soul.

And these notes were my grateful thanks to the instrument for allowing me to play its glory with such grace.

Allowing me to love it so much that it became a part of who I was—the very fabric of my being.

And finally, as the delicate bars of the piece flowed so softly into the room, they signaled my eternal gratitude to the boy sitting silently in the dark. The boy as gifted at photography as I was at music. He was my heart. The heart freely given to me as a child. The heart that made up one half of my own. The boy who, though breaking inside, loved me so deeply that he gave me this farewell. Gave me, in the present, the dream that my future never could.

My soul mate who captured moments.

My hand shook as the final note rang out, my tears splashing to the wood. I held my hand in the air, the end of the piece suspended until the final echo of its whispered top note drifted to the heavens to take its place among the stars.

I paused, letting the farewell sink in.

Then as quietly as possible, I stood. And smiling, I pictured the audience and their applause. I bowed my head and lowered the cello to the floor of the stage, laying the bow on top just as it had been found.

I tipped my head back into the tunnel of light from above one last time, then stepped into the shadow. My heels created a dull drum beat as I left the stage. When I reached the bottom step, the house lights came on, ushering away the remnants of the dream.

I took in a deep breath as I ranged my gaze over the empty red chairs, then cast a glance back to the cello still positioned exactly as it was on the stage, waiting patiently for the next young musician to be blessed with its grace.

It was done.

Rune slowly rose to his feet. My stomach lurched as I saw his cheeks reddened by emotion. But my heart skipped a much-needed beat when I saw the expression on his handsome face.

He understood me. He understood my truth.

He understood it was the final time I would play. And I could see, with crystal clarity, the mixture of sorrow and pride set in his eyes.

When he reached me, Rune didn’t touch the tear stains on my cheeks, as I left his untouched. Closing his eyes, Rune took my mouth in a kiss. And in this kiss I felt his outpouring of love. I felt a love, that at seventeen, I was blessed to have received.

A love that knew no boundaries.

The kind of love that inspires music that lasts through the ages.

A love that should be felt and meant and treasured.

When Rune pulled back and stared into my eyes, I knew that this kiss would be handwritten on a pink paper heart with more devotion than any of those that had gone before.

Kiss eight hundred and nineteen was the kiss that changed it all. The kiss that proved that a long-haired brooding boy from Norway and a quirky girl from the Deep South could find a love to rival the greats.

It showed that love was simply the tenacity to make sure that the other half of your heart knew he, or she, was adored in every way. In every minute of every day. That love was tenderness in its purest form.