Tuesday, February 24, 2009
The concert is a half an hour away and the children are in chaos in their makeshift playground. Parents are trying to accommodate the anxious children when a man with a tuba appears out of nowhere with a stool in his hand and he proceeds to position himself at the top of a low rise in the hallway. The children are fluttering at his feet like butterflies on a branch as he readies himself. My 4-year-old son is perched on my shoulders, he is the head and I am his legs, and I walk toward the musician in anticipation as he puts his lips up to this gleaming monster. Deep uncommon tones, soft and deliberate caresses, each one begins to fill the expansiveness of the space as if the rooftop is beginning to breathe with each new note. As he plays I can feel the sounds on my chest and the vibrations are resonating as if from the inside of my heart out into the room. Instantly I think of my son and I look up at the wonderment on his face. I knew he could feel what I could feel, it was the first time for both of us. I thought, this is what it is to be alive my son and I cried in the lobby of Roy Thompson Hall.