My Beloved

         I wonder some nights- actually, almost every night- why I was never able to please my mother. Ever since I can remember, she was only pleased with my music when someone tells her how moved they were by its sweet gentleness; but, it is then, and only then, when she smiles at my pieces. And so, the more my hopes of acceptation were crushed by her apathetic air, the more my fingers wish not to play the smooth black and white keys of our grand piano. The ironic thing is that the only reason I play the piano is because she wished me to be a well rounded gentleman. Though I enjoyed the piano, and still do now, my heart has always been stopped by the enchanting, rich, deep, soothing tone of the cello. But, when I told mother, after hearing my first cello concert, that I wanted to learn how to play the cello just as elegantly, she gave me a grimace and told me never to speak of such nonsense again.



          However, as I was playing in the attic at the age of seven, I stumbled upon one; it was about the same height as me.  Timidly, I eased it to the floor and proceeded to release the rusty brass clasps. When the hard case was finally open, I gasped in awe at the ancient chestnut-colored frame of the instrument of my joy. From then on I worked secretly with my piano teacher on the cello, as well as the piano, and I would practice every night in the attic with only the moonlight to enlighten my music. It was a paradise, just sitting there, night after night, with my love and playing my soul out; releasing all of my sorrow of my father’s young death and being rejected by my mother, my deep desire to only please her with who and what I am, and, most importantly, freeing my spirit from the heavy burden of not being able to share my joy with her. But, my bliss didn’t last long, for she caught my teacher and me practicing my cello. She had the man fired and then sent me to a boarding school with next to no music program, and forced me into business classes, which I was terrible at and was scolded for as well. So, I became an exile from my attic; the only place that was ever truly my home; the only place that bears the object I love the most, my cello. 



        Many years had passed since that day when I was in my first year Junior High, and I had tried to teach myself as much as I can about the cello, but it is precious little compared to the knowledge I wished to know. During my second year of Senior High, luck was on my side, for an amazing female college student volunteered her time to teach students music, and, though her specialty was the piano, like many other proper young ladys’, she also knew how to play my instrument. So, from the first of September to the end of June, with a few breaks due to holidays, I would meet with her and perfect my music by working on sight reading, technique, and expression, though, she said I didn’t need a lot of work with that. By the time I was in my senior year, my teacher was able to persuade the principal to allow a concert of the music students during our homecoming week. I can’t explain how excited I was; this would be my very first debut in front of a large audience, and I would be sharing g a piece of my soul with my fellow classmates; it was just thrilling.



            So, when the day finally came, that excitement only blazed brighter and with more intensity than before as I waited for my turn to perform, which was last. I couldn’t tell you how long my waiting was- the mind becomes obstructed when waiting in anticipation- there were only a few students, but time seemed to fly at an alarming rate because, before I knew it, it was my turn to perform. Both my teacher and I glided onto the stage, took our positions, and began to play Antonio Vivaldi’s Cello Sonata in E minor, the third movement. I poured every ounce of my being into every stroke of my bow; I could feel every fiber of my soul cry out to my listeners to understand my shame, but, when I was finished and the audience was about to clap, a familiar figure rose in the audience; it was my mother; I hadn’t realized until then that parents were invited to the performance. For a short moment, a glimmer of hope lit in my breast, hoping that, by some miracle, she would have heard my music and heard my cry for her to accept me for who I was.



          But that, too, faded too soon for she looked me straight in the eye and announced, in front of the whole school, “You, like your father, have betrayed me.  I have worked so hard for you to become a great man of business and wealth, and how am I repaid? It is all thrown back into my face with that foolish cello and you couldn’t care less how I have hurt. No son of mine would do that.” I stood and opened my mouth to implore her not to cast me away so quickly, but she raised her silencing hand, “Do not speak!  You have done enough damage to my heart by becoming your father. I never want to hear from you nor see you ever again. Good-bye, Fredrick.” And, just like that, she strode out of my like forever. She just left me there, alone on the stage in a auditorium full of people who didn’t know how to react to what they had just heard, with a name that wasn’t even my own, but my father’s.