Если я останусь
8:12 P.M.
ImeanDadmighthammeronhisdrumsforafewhoursbyhimselforwritesongsaloneatthekitchentable,plinkingoutthenotesonhisbeat-upacousticguitar,buthealwayssaidthatsongsreallygotwrittenasyouplayedthem.Thatwaswhatmadeitsointeresting.
WhenIplayed,itwasmostoftenbymyself,inmyroom.EvenwhenIpracticedwiththerotatingcollegestudents,otherthanduringlessons,Istillusuallyplayedsolo.AndwhenIgaveaconcertorrecital,itwasalone,onastage,mycello,myself,andanaudience.AndunlikeDad’sshows,whereenthusiasticfansjumpedthestageandthendive-bombedintothecrowd,therewasalwaysawallbetweentheaudienceandme.Afterawhileplayinglikethisgotlonely.Italsogotkindofboring.
SointhespringofeighthgradeIdecidedtoquit.Iplannedtotrailoffquietly,bycuttingbackmyobsessivepractices,notgivingrecitals.IfiguredthatifIlaidoffgradually,bythetimeIenteredhighschoolinthefall,Icouldstartfresh,nolongerbeknownas"thecellist."MaybethenI’dpickupanewinstrument,guitarorbass,orevendrums.Plus,withMomtoobusywithTeddytonoticethelengthofmycellopractice,andDadswampedwithlessonplansandgradingpapersathisnewteachingjob,IfigurednobodywouldevenrealizethatI’dstoppedplayinguntilitwasalreadyadonedeal.Atleastthat’swhatItoldmyself.Thetruthwas,IcouldnosoonerquitcellocoldturkeythanIcouldstopbreathing.
Imighthavequitforreal,wereitnotforKim.
