where art collides philosoperontap

There was nothing to distinguish the road from the others I had crossed on my journey there that day. I imagined the nearly identical front rooms in each of the identical terraced houses having little to tell them apart.

This one was different though. On the surface it looked the same and for consistency the everpresent seagull was perched on the rooftop of one of the terraces. But this road had soul.

I could hear the sound from a long way down the street as I walked towards the house. The air was still and there was no traffic around. The music floated all around me growing richer the nearer I got. It almost felt as if I was in a movie with the violin as the soundtrack.

I arrived and stood in front of the house, listening. The top pane of the upstairs front window was open and through this vent flowed the music. I imagined that it would stop if I was able to reach up and push it shut but I could not do that and in any case I didn’t want to.

I stayed on that spot for some time listening. I always did. It somehow seemed to make it better that she didn’t know I was there.

The music went on fluidly, occasionally changing its mood, talking to me really. Somehow it was telling how things were. I knew that if it was bright and lively then she was happy. In the years I had been coming it had been through all the emotions, triumphant, bored, even. It did occasionally cry and I would become concerned and keen to understand what was up.

That day, as ever, I waited until the end of a piece, strode up to the door and rang the bell.