Everything is so familiar.
Someone is tapping a whiteboard marker on the top of a piano. An upright, i bet.
Some young violinist can't keep time with their repetiteur.
A saxophone has some breath blown into it and I'm reminded of the wonderful, warm sound that no other instrument will ever match.
A girl with a cello bigger than herself walks through the door, and trundles innocently up the corridor.
There's something I love about this top floor, though the magic is lost somewhat when it's SO full of sounds and people.
Oh - the magic returns a little bit. Two little guitarists are waiting outside John's room, and as he says goodbye to one kid he welcomes in the other two, and I hear his voice and I remember every single Wednesday morning of last year, how early it was, how good the lessons were and how awful I still feel that I didn't practice enough for them, and how much I enjoyed the chats we'd have about vegetarianism and karma and other great things when the other students didn't show up. Then John closes the door, and I'm back to staring at this light cream wall. I know if I was several inches shorter I'd be taking way too much notice of the flaws in the line between the light cream and taupe paint that covers these twisting, turning walls. It looks a lot better downstairs in the entrance.
I really, really hope this year picks up again before its end.
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