Если я останусь
7:16 A.M.
He’sapologizing,sayingthatheknowsthisisn’tmyfavoritebutitwasthebesthecoulddo.HeturnsupthevolumesoIcanhearthemusicfloatingacrossthemorningair.Thenhetakesmyhand.
ItisYo-YoMa.PlayingAndanteconpocoemotorubato.Thelowpianoplaysalmostasifinwarning.Incomesthecello,likeaheartbleeding.Andit’slikesomethinginsideofmeimplodes.
Iamsittingaroundthebreakfasttablewithmyfamily,drinkinghotcoffee,laughingatTeddy’schocolate-chipmustache.Thesnowisblowingoutside.
Iamvisitingacemetery.Threegravesunderatreeonahilloverlookingtheriver.
IamlyingwithAdam,myheadonhischest,onasandybanknexttotheriver.
Iamhearingpeoplesaythewordorphanandrealizethatthey’retalkingaboutme.
IamwalkingthroughNewYorkCitywithKim,theskyscraperscastingshadowsonourfaces.
IamholdingTeddyonmylap,ticklinghimashegigglessohardhekeelsover.
Iamsittingwithmycello,theoneMomandDadgavemeaftermyfirstrecital.Myfingerscaressthewoodandthepegs,whichtimeandtouchhavewornsmooth.Mybowispoisedoverthestringsnow.Iamlookingatmyhand,waitingtostartplaying.
Iamlookingatmyhand,beingheldbyAdam’shand.
Yo-YoMacontinuestoplay,andit’slikethepianoandcelloarebeingpouredintomybody,thesamewaythattheIVandbloodtransfusionsare.Andthememoriesofmylifeasitwas,andtheflashesofitasitmightbe,arecomingsofastandfurious.
