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pier in a pond

When I was a child I loved sitting in the picture window and watching the rain storms dance across the pond behind the house. Even if it was barely raining you could see the silent dance of raindrops across the surface of the pond. One half of the pond pristine and absolutely still, the other potholed with dancing raindrops falling from their storm and joining the lake in a swarth dance. Then just as perhaps you assumed that the still side of the lake wasn’t equally alive - you’d see a orange leaf fall and skip across it’s surface, trying to hold out for life for every last glorious second before swaying down into it’s resting place in the pond below.

My grandfather would spy me looking out over the pond and I’d hear the record scratch of him starting up his Victorola. He’d play this immortally simple recording of Marcello’s Oboe Concerto, the Adagio. This would soon be followed by the house smelling of his freshly lighted pipe, and the strong smell of British flake burning away in giant white puffs.

I can’t for the life of me remember if my sisters and brothers were similarly stationed somewhere else in the farmhouse facing the pond. Or whether the Adagio stops them in a flood of grateful emotion whenever NPR plays it now that we’re adults.

What I do remember, is how moments like these were the simplest of prayers. Magical moments where life was reduced involuntarily into it's base elements. Even breathing felt like the woodwinds joining the oboe in its mournful song - disappearing into the wind and dancing with the water it's notes dissolving into the pond below.