I fell in love with the cello in my junior year of high school. It was during a senior’s final solo with a piano accompaniment. Before then, the cello was just another string instrument overshadowed by the violin, in terms of performance. Granted, my exposure to expressive players was limited to teenagers struggling to be expressive, period.

I don’t remember her name, the cellist. It wouldn’t be hard to figure it out. But I don’t want to know. I fell in love with her playing, in that moment cemented years ago.

I knew her in the way most do in high school, recognized the face. She was elegant, her style of play exciting. She was so expressive, with eyes shut, she moved to the memorized music, or perhaps the music moved to her. The slits of her red satin dress fell to the sides of shapely legs, framing the cello in a artist’s embrace.

Seconds into the performance, my imagination began to form the idea of a story. The story’s setting solidified by the rhythm of bow and string. Her skill served as not only the turnkey to creativity, but her physical movement, the constant shift between tension and release as her shoulders leaned into each bar, gave the story a theme for which my own emotions at the time could filter through.

I will admit, that the beginning of the story could have been mistaken for a Evanescence music video; somewhere between My Immortal and Wake Me Up Inside. Thankfully it came into a life of its own.

The same cellist performed the very same piece, upon the balcony of a tower that overlooked a gothic city bathed in the light of a full moon. Her music carried far into night, drawing the downtrotend from their wells of thought. Behind her, the lord of the estate on which the tower stood, marveled at his prize.

Her music sang of a forlorn life that was regrettably her own. She lived in a fantasy twisted by the ambition of one she trusted, long dead. Amongst the upturned gazes, a heartfelt wish was given to the wind for the cellist to be freed.

As the performance came to an end, the cellist held the final note, giving it time to settle with the waiting silence. That final act, allowed the performance to slip free from the degradation of time.

I was dating a musician at the time; specifically a violinist (cliche, I know). I bring this up, because after the cellist’s performance, her and I exchanged a look. In her blue eyes, she fought to keep the rise of jealousy from showing.  
Due to my inexperience, after we left the event and shared our thoughts, I was too blunt in my admission of the cellist’s allure. The viper of jealous had won. It loomed in the shadows of the face she gave. She admitted, with a tinge of bitterness, that the performance was exceptional for a cellist.

If at the end of the world, the cellist music was played, I’d welcome the chance to hear it once more.

As an aside, someone I deeply care for recently picked up the cello. They were kind enough to send me a clip of them playing happy birthday, for well, my birthday. I’m sure they aren’t aware of just how genuinely happy the gift made me. It brought back a cherished memory at a most needed time.

The range of a cello paints the most vivid of worlds in my imagination, despite its intended purpose in service to its more shrill sister. The cello can lull me into the allusive sanctuary of sleep, just as easily as it can stoke the fading flame in my soul. I love the cello, for it is the instrument of Creation.