Rochester, 1932
It's early spring and Esme is outside attending to the flower banks which have newly opened. Kneeling in the beds pulling out handfuls of weeds with decided affection toward both the task and the garden itself. Even toward the silence of the afternoon, now that Edward has stopped banging out his newest piece a few minutes ago.
Something had settled out finally with the acceptance to his new school.
An unexpected outcome to their unexpected blessings.
Where there has once been the combined presences of the piano that Carlisle had kept and then finally Edward, without any playing, since the letter, there had been ceaseless sound all day and night long. But it wasn't only sound. It was as though Edward was using his hands as a hammer to press out all the sound as loud and hard and fast through the keys as were it possible while still leaving it standing.
There was nothing precious to the playing any longer, and the gift that it was happening waned weeks back. She didn't need a musical degree to be able to tell how these pieces were picked, or why he played them. More often than not she needed more patience not to frown or make a pointed comment with her thought.
Something had settled out finally with the acceptance to his new school.
An unexpected outcome to their unexpected blessings.
Where there has once been the combined presences of the piano that Carlisle had kept and then finally Edward, without any playing, since the letter, there had been ceaseless sound all day and night long. But it wasn't only sound. It was as though Edward was using his hands as a hammer to press out all the sound as loud and hard and fast through the keys as were it possible while still leaving it standing.
There was nothing precious to the playing any longer, and the gift that it was happening waned weeks back. She didn't need a musical degree to be able to tell how these pieces were picked, or why he played them. More often than not she needed more patience not to frown or make a pointed comment with her thought.