French Suite #6, Bach, Sviatislav Richter. I can listen, enjoy every part, and know that I will never play it.
The last movement of Brahms’ 4th. I can help Tom hear the 8-measure melody on which all those thirty-some variations will be worked.
We are at a sushi lunch at our own table, candles lit, grateful.
Outside, the rain has stopped for a while.
I know the Star Magnolia, the blue Pulmonaria and the Azalea are there, comfortable outside the front door in the cool damp.
At the end of the driveway, the Pink Magnolia is just bursting as the Corylopsis comes to its final week for this year, the double white Hellebores by the gate go on and on, and the special Arboretum-bought viburnum behind the mailbox is ready to pop.
I wasn’t aware quite of when it happened, but one day, I didn’t need to buy and dig in any more plants, harvest (with permission) any more stone, or moss, or invest in any more shrubs or trees.
Now, in every month, something’s blooming, something’s just going by. Wild White Violet in the not-yet-long grass of the field surprises me. I didn’t put them there; birds must have. Daffodils, some of them, mark the places where beloved pets are buried: Grey, Filch, Foon, Sam and Olga, Duchess and Milo and Sadie. Dougal has his own stone.
At lunch, we talk of Beethoven composing long after he could no longer hear. Tom says he sometimes hears music and listens as he’s going to sleep.