I look for words in the dark, silently describing to myself the particular conditions of the weather on the morning I saw you most recently— the wind, its patterned disarray— my mind elsewhere, distracted, lyrical, while the pianist plays an encore. Mozart was born on this day 257 years ago. All day I have been ungenerous, resentful, impatient. In between movements, no applause but the old ladies cough loudly, violently. We cannot last forever. I loved music before I loved books. I loved Mozart before I loved you. Copyright © 2015 by Richie Hofmann. Used with permission of the author. |
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