The Maestro's Birthday
I saw the old man, his hair wild, crouched over a piano. I was unsure whether to approach the great man, but the music had latched onto me, beckoned me towards him.
It wasn’t before long until I was standing in “the spot;” the perfect spot about a yard from the first curve of the grand. Here, I was drowning in the sound & the power this great man drew from the instrument. It was commanding, but it wasn’t banging.
I couldn’t believe that I was the presence of one of the greatest, if not thee greatest, composer who ever lived.
Even if it was only in my dreams.
He finished the movement of one of his sonatas, hovered his hands over the keys for an eternal second, then turned to look at me.
Man, this guy has an intimidating stare.
I cleared my throat. “Maestro Beetoven, I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday!”
He furrowed his brow, confused.
“Happy birthday, Maestro!” I said, a bit louder.
He cupped his hand around his ear.
“ VHAT? ” he bellowed.