you could tell, after all these years, he still loved it, loved the music, loved the way his fingers had this wild freedom on it. and every time he went to that closet, every time, right before he shut the door, he would glance to that shelf at the top, more than a foot above his head, that he hadn't touched in years. you knew that his body and his heart and everything and anything that made him him missed that damn instrutment.

everyone who knew him at all would ask why he didnt pick it back up. why he didnt keep on playing, if only at family reunions or church gatherings. why he didnt teach, when his wife told stories of waking up at night to see his fingers moving against the bedsheet while he smiled, dreaming, unaware.

he never told anyone any of his dreams.

when he was alone, or with very few special people, he would pull out a record or, after the record player broke, a cassette. he'd play this music, this recorded instrumental that sometimes moved slow and reminded you of clouds in june or sometimes moved so fast you couldnt help but picture the player with bleeding fingers. and always he would sit back in his chair that was as old as i was and smile. his body would still, his eyes unfocus, and his hands go unnaturally still.

i asked, once, what the instrument meant to him, back then. he smiled a little, told me it was what created and sustained his heart.

i asked, once or twice, a lot, why he stopped. he never answered. just gently redirected the conversation.

and i know, now, why he did. when you reach that point when you start failing the craft, when your fingers slip once too often, or when your ear loses a little of its acuity, its easier to remember what was, the apex of the relationship between you and the instrument that created such god awful beauty, then to continue that into a marred faltering flatness.