2 O'clock

A tooting–no, fluting–invited my ear into the night. Focusing my ear on the the evocation, I became sure that it wasn't a flute. It had none of that tinny sweetness of sons that I associated with a flute. No, it was fuller, broader...the notes were rounder than the sometimes shrillness of a metal flute.

I say it was a recorder, a recorder passing under my window to draw me out like in the story of the pan piper and his rats following him into the river. The sea is so near that he wouldn't have to lead me far...

The night piper was playing a familiar tune, one usually accompanied by a drummer. And although my brain was a mass of melma, mush from half consciousness, I searched and searched my memory banks...I beckoned it to come ashore and give my mind some rest.

The song is percussive and has a modern feel, yet I know it comes from a complex, classical piece. The melody becomes stronger until it's at its maximum swell beneath my window. Then, the sound slowly loses its intensity until all that's left is the tune echoing in my ear.

The melody plays, replays, and plays again on the banks of my memory. Though I am tinged with annoyance tickling my brain at having been woken, I also thought: How often do I get to hear a great melody serenading me under my window?

I drift off knowing morning clarity will brush off the title from the shores of my memory. And it does...Bolero by Maurice Ravel. Played by a recorder, no less. That was definitely the first time I had heard that rendition, and probably the last. I had better cherish it.


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Text: Kristen Mastromarchi

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