Story #195

One time this happened...

I used to get anxious every time my mom dropped me off for violin lessons at 3 PM on Tuesdays, but for some reason, that particular afternoon sticks out in my memory.
We lived on 14th Street, near the park where a guy sold fresh-cut daisies. I remember how their petals smelled like grandma's perfume. Anyway, as I walked into the music room, Mrs. Patel looked up from arranging sheet music on her desk and flashed her perfect white smile. Her curly black hair was tied in a loose ponytail today.

Then Mrs. Patel put on the first note of my teacher for the day's piece โ€“ Mozart's Rondo Alla Turca. As she started playing it, I felt my skin prickle โ€“ her rendition seemed so different from my stumbling, stumbling attempts to recreate it that I felt a strange sense of hope. It was the first lesson, and Mrs. Patel didn't say much about anything except music. I felt like I was learning a secret language she could sense. By the time the last note faded, my mom's voice was fading into the distant traffic, leaving only me to face the music that now swirled around me awkwardly but full of strange possibilities.
2