It Comes With TimeMature

                An old man, bent with the years he carried on his shoulders, leaned up against the sun-bleached clapboards. He played steadily and fluidly from a beaten harmonica. A young boy sat on the browned grass, facing the man. The boy’s harp was new and clean and shone with brassy silvering through his clutching fingers. He toyed nervously with the instrument, like a restless horse, biting and lipping at the musical bit as he studied the old man intently. Gazing down at the boy, he smiled through his playing, without breaking the line of notes that flowed naturally from his body; the harmonica was part of him, in his blood. The boys own notes were thick and warbled, and clumsy, but they were clear. “In time,” thought the man. “It always comes with time.”

The End

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