Music together.

We gather around the dusty black piano. Anne is squinting at her cello music grumpily as her lilac reading glasses slip down the bridge of her nose. Hunter's stress is nearly tangible, and his bow is whining up and down the viola with the strings screaming in protest. I'm too tired and hungry to be a peacemaker, so I take to delicately poking Hunter in the back with the tip of my bow. He in turn tips Anne's music stand to the ground. Mom releases the piano keys and breathes in something between a sigh of exasperation and a gasp of anger. There's too much friction in the air, and it's a simultaneous explosion. Anne bursts into tears, Hunter storms outside, and I run downstairs for coverage.

All I wanted was for my family to be able to make music together, that's all I wanted.

You can hear Mom muttering as she slips into the kitchen and sadly, quietly, pours herself a tall glass of water. Hunter reenters the house, bringing with him a sharp winter breeze. The sheet music soars off of the piano, and the title of the piece suddenly becomes apparent.

Love at Home.

It's not always harmonious, but we play together. Ever since I can remember, it was always together. I remember working through violin exercises with Mom every day around the piano when I was four. We did it together. The togetherness didn't stop at eight years old, or even eleven. By then Hunter and Anne were started on their own musical endeavours, and as our sound grew together, we grew together. I was beginning to have a separate agenda with performances, tours, and business parties. But I never lost the love for the humblest of concerts. I remember a special moment at one simple and very worn down care center. As Hunter and I nervously unpacked our instruments, the elderly were wheeled in. Some shared beds and were covered with threadbare blankets. Some were blind, many were nearly deaf. So very many lonely people.

Ready? Ready.

Hunter and I locked eyes, summoned confidence, and began our carefully memorized pieces. I immediately felt at ease and so thankful to Mom for those hours spent working the technicalities out at the piano. As Hunter and I weaved our melodies together, I reached a point of awareness where I knew exactly how to inflect the music I was creating. It's such a personal thing, inflection is. You pour your whole self into it, and the beautiful thing is that it translates directly to the audience. You make the music your voice, and in doing so the audience can feel who you are and what you are feeling. As the musician you get the reward of sensing their reception.
We finished thirty minutes later, and a peaceful silence filled the room. Suddenly an enthusiastic, if muffled applause ensued. Hunter and I walked around the room and greeted everyone. Our faces were squeezed and kissed, and our hands were pressed against wet cheeks.

Thank you, thank you, so beautiful. Do you see this? You made me cry.

I tried to squeeze back, but it made me nervous. Because it wasn't me. It wasn't Hunter either. It was what we created together.
Nothing feels better than giving everything that you are capable of. It's such a blessing to me that I can give, and see the result right before my eyes. It's happiness.
Anne later joined our duet, making up a trio. With amazing Mom accompanying us wherever we go, we continue playing today. Now it's just a matter of waiting for baby Stanford to be able to wield a bow, or maybe take over on piano?
The truth is that wherever we are needed, we are willing to go together. It's changed our family, and I hope I never lose this.