by Zed Adams
We found the place by chance – a modest shelter for a group of war-displaced children. The orphans greeted us with shy smiles and polite questions. Their upturned faces were radiant as they followed us closely, as if hungering for human contact and love.
Like I used to feel before I met him.
Summer turned to autumn.
He smiled when I told him that I'd volunteered to teach music to the orphans. Three afternoons weekly I made my way there, rain or shine. It lightened my heart to be able to bring them joy, to share with them the simple pleasure of making music. As they blossomed, my pride grew.
You have a special gift with children, he declared and kissed me.
Then one afternoon he appeared, violin-case in hand. The children gathered around him excitedly, calling him Uncle Trowa's friend. I suppressed a smile as he blushed.
A hush fell as we played that same duet that we played when we first met all those years ago. Intertwining melodies, half-passionate, half-mischievous, pure affection. They adored him and begged for more. He acceded.
Later we left, hand in hand, hearts soaring with devotion. And it was enough.