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It
is
Yo
-
Yo
Ma
.
Playing
Andante
con
poco
e
moto
rubato
.
The
low
piano
plays
almost
as
if
in
warning
.
In
comes
the
cello
,
like
a
heart
bleeding
.
And
it
’
s
like
something
inside
of
me
implodes
.
I
am
sitting
around
the
breakfast
table
with
my
family
,
drinking
hot
coffee
,
laughing
at
Teddy
’
s
chocolate
-
chip
mustache
.
The
snow
is
blowing
outside
.
I
am
visiting
a
cemetery
.
Three
graves
under
a
tree
on
a
hill
overlooking
the
river
.
I
am
lying
with
Adam
,
my
head
on
his
chest
,
on
a
sandy
bank
next
to
the
river
.
I
am
hearing
people
say
the
word
orphan
and
realize
that
they
’
re
talking
about
me
.
I
am
walking
through
New
York
City
with
Kim
,
the
skyscrapers
casting
shadows
on
our
faces
.
I
am
holding
Teddy
on
my
lap
,
tickling
him
as
he
giggles
so
hard
he
keels
over
.
I
am
sitting
with
my
cello
,
the
one
Mom
and
Dad
gave
me
after
my
first
recital
.
My
fingers
caress
the
wood
and
the
pegs
,
which
time
and
touch
have
worn
smooth
.
My
bow
is
poised
over
the
strings
now
.
I
am
looking
at
my
hand
,
waiting
to
start
playing
.
I
am
looking
at
my
hand
,
being
held
by
Adam
’
s
hand
.
Yo
-
Yo
Ma
continues
to
play
,
and
it
’
s
like
the
piano
and
cello
are
being
poured
into
my
body
,
the
same
way
that
the
IV
and
blood
transfusions
are
.
And
the
memories
of
my
life
as
it
was
,
and
the
flashes
of
it
as
it
might
be
,
are
coming
so
fast
and
furious
.
