A story about a young girl who hears music in places that nobody else would think to try.
There is an orchestra in my backyard.
I lay back in the soft grass, the spot enveloping me like a hug from an old friend. To me, the patch of the backyard beneath the weeping willow is an old friend. I’ve laid here since I was little, listening to the concertos the instruments of the backyard play.
There are a lot of different instruments here. There are violins and violas and basses, but there are also flutes and percussion and vocal accompaniment.
The instruments know many pieces. In the summer, they play me tunes as light as air, for that’s when the whistle of the wind through the blades of grass becomes a fine flute. In the winter, they play me melodies with a daunting quality, for the percussion of footsteps in crunchy snow can only be found between December and the beginning of March.
My orchestra always plays for me and I always listen, beneath the weeping willow tree. In the winter it gets harder and harder to find excuses to go outside; mother’s always worrying that I’ll catch a cold, but I always find a way. I need music and music needs me.
Fortunately, it is summertime. I don’t need any excuse but a good book to read and the desire for fresh air, in order to spend some time in the shade. Leaning my head against the trunk of the tree, I rub my finger across the inky lettering of a book’s pages, giving myself something to look at as I keep time with the sounds of the bugs skittering up the tree.