Honorable Mention

While I have not posted on my website in quite some time (too long), I have been very busy behind the scenes continuing to hone my craft and work on a larger manuscript. Part of keeping my writing muscles tuned up includes short stories and other assorted writing exercises. I submitted a short story to the 92nd Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition several months ago in the category of Mainstream/Literary Short Story. I am happy to announce that the story won “Honorable Mention”. Without further ado, here is “The Symphony” for your reading pleasure…

The Symphony

By

R.A. Grando

I go to the symphony to feel. Willfully, I go alone. My coat secured in the coat check, I make my way to my seat. I always sit in the front view orchestra section, Row KK, seat 19. The ushers greet me with their wide, toothy smiles, their dark jackets and pants pressed to perfection. The usher stationed at door number four greets my familiar face, hands me a program, and escorts me to my seat, her stooped shoulders and shuffling gait mimicking my own. I nod and thank her. They all recognize me but they do not know me for I do not linger after nor do I mingle prior to the performances. I only attend the symphonic performances, never the other events that involve various genres, featured artists, and movie scores. As I wait for others to arrive and be seated, I know that the seat to my right will remain empty. It is always empty. I watch the people in their fine clothes as they gather in the boxes to the left and the right of the hall. I recognize some of the faces among them but there passes no acknowledgement as we are mere acquaintances who seemingly enjoy orchestral music. It’s funny how when the music starts there will be a connectedness that we share. I come to the symphony to feel and to remember.

 I peruse the program for the evening. It is a celebration of Johann Sebastian Bach in honor of the great German composer’s upcoming date of birth. The second bell chimes as the lighting grows dim. The musicians, regal in their black finery, settle themselves as the first violinist makes her way to the stage. She pauses, facing the audience, and gives a bow to apt applause. She turns to stand in front of her chair while her colleagues all rise as one body. The Maestro makes his way to the riser from which he will conduct, pausing to offer the customary handshake to the Concert Mistress. Stationed in front of and slightly above the orchestra, he faces the audience and bows to the applause. Verbally, he provides an overview of the program for the evening, regaling historical facts about J.S. Bach and his contributions as one of the world’s greatest composers. He turns facing the musicians, the baton, an instrument of his will, poised high in his right hand, the hall falling silent. I love that moment of shared anticipation in the absence of sound.

Probably most well-known, the orchestra launches into the Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 in G Major followed by Concerto No. 6 in B-Flat Major. The initial pace reminds me of spring, its harmonious arrangement of strings uplifting. Oh how he loved the springtime and our strolls about the park, taking in an occasional outdoor concert under the stars, sharing a picnic dinner. I look around to see reminiscence of better days on the faces of the patrons nearest me, sharing collectively in our memories yet sanctified in solitude. The orchestra launches into the second Brandenburg piece without a pause. The second movement with its gentle melodies makes me think of watching him sleep and brushing a persistent curl from his forehead, his brows furrowed, his consciousness lost in dreams. I am pulled from my thoughts by the ringing of the final note, the hall in silent thrall prior to the eruption of generous applause. The lights rise as a short intermission ensues.

Making my way to the café and bar, I order a six ounce Amontillado, to fortify me for the second half of the performance. The server refuses my bank card. I retrieve a folded $5 bill from my wallet and place it in the jar labeled “Tips”. It is a game we play each time I attend a performance. Finding a lone table in the back corner, I retreat to enjoy my sherry’s complex flavor profile. I will only drink half of it but it will be sufficient for what will come. The first bell rings and I know that I must make my way back but this cozy, dark corner is such solace. Reluctantly, I rise.

The lights have dimmed and they have set up the grand organ for Toccata and Fugue in D minor, arranged, I presume, for symphonic performance. Maestro with his baton aloft, his right pant leg always tucked into the back of his shoe, a common observance for those of us who attend regularly. A superstition perhaps? His hand drops and the organist calls his response, hunched over with his mass of gray hair miming the sound emitted from his key strokes. The violins enter timidly at first in the same way I tiptoed into your room as you slept soundly, unaware of my own struggles. The cellos call forth images of tears and sadness best forgotten. My heart thunders in my chest as I am overcome. Visions of raised voices swim before me along with a face so dear to me that I would cut out my own heart to see it thrive. I could never make him see the value in those moments so I would retreat to find better timing and footing. They say the worst heartaches are those that happen by a thousand tiny cuts, so it was with us. As the piece comes to a close, an overzealous audience member, the lone clapper, interrupts my reverie. The clapping sound dies as quickly as it arose.

The audience and orchestra are in still repose, as the first chair cellist approaches from stage left to find his seat center stage, slightly to the right of Maestro, yet illuminated and apart from his peers as he steps onto the small riser prepared for him. At the flick of Maestro’s baton, the cellist begins Cello Suite No. 2 in D Minor. His mop of blond hair is swept back, except for a lone curl that has escaped to lay softly upon his furrowed brow. The cellist is one with his instrument and his passion is palpable in every note he coaxes from its hollow body and strings. You can see the wear upon the fingerboard much like the cello I remember from so long ago. Memories threaten to engulf me and I feel tears stinging my eyes. I close my eyelids and let the sound wash over me. His last days were riddled with pain. I sat by his bedside as the nurses tried to make him comfortable. Despite it all, I loved him to the very end.

I make my way home, the house is dark except for one lone lamp in the front hall. I remove my coat and hang it carefully in the front hall closet. The library and music room are to the left and I am drawn there. I switch the lights on and make my way to the old, worn cello, kept enshrined in the corner. I see to it that it is always in good working order. I take a seat and hold the cello. I can see where his fingers have worn grooves into the backside of the neck. I remember how he would practice and I remember, too, how it drove his father away to his office and his clubs. He could never see the value in artistic pursuits, to his detriment, I think. Always business first with him. The phone rings and I answer it, “Hello?”

“Mom, did you make it to the Symphony Hall okay?”

“Yes, I did,” I reply.

“Did you take a friend this time?”

“No, I like to go alone, son.”

“You should really think about asking one of your friends or someone from one of your clubs, Mom.”

I just smile and nod my head without acknowledging his opinion.

“Mom, you there?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“What did you think of the performance? Was it good?”

“It was beautifully arranged as always. Your solo cello performance was mesmerizing.”

“Do you think Dad would’ve liked it, Mom?”

Caught off guard by the question, I pause. “Yes, I believe he would’ve been impressed by it.”

“They are planning to name the Patron’s lounge after him following the donation you made in his name, Mom.”

“Yes, I know. They sent me a letter asking if it was alright to do that.”

“I gotta run, Mom, but I love you and maybe I can come around on Sunday for brunch?”

“Sure, son, that sounds fine.” I put the phone back in its cradle and sit for a moment to bask in the success of my greatest masterpiece.