Ross, pt. II

The sway and croon of the evening’s orchestration became a deafening cascade of the purest emotion, as can be expected from any young boy who has not yet learned to know any better or any worse. Innocence crystalline as a sunset on the sea’s horizon glistened and glanced off of the greenhouse’s glass walls, and evermore retained the reverberations. They say that on days when the same balmy breeze, not too harsh nor too placid, and the same temperature, not too warm but with a touch of chill if one is not standing properly in the sun, and when the sun shines at the same angle to the windows with the same golden and a hint of orange and pink light, then the greenhouse plays and replays the melody Ross inspirited that day.

For such a young man, he seemed wise beyond his years, and everyone thought so at their first hearkening of his Lovely Music. Was it truly him that was wise, or was he simply a prodigy in music? For those that heard him, they’d say the look in his eyes suggests an old soul that has seen and understood all manners of the world and its ways. And what is wisdom, truly, but a heart that directs the rest of oneself to proper etiquette, dealings, and reactions to all that is? Just listen to his tune. Does it not suggest that there is far more to the world than you and me and physics and love? Yet how could one so young discern his own callowness?

In this sense, yes, Ross was uncommonly wise and unendingly kind. He did not, however, claim experience, nor could his rosy cheeks or unwrinkled brow claim it for him. He was, as formerly alluded to, innocently wise. Some are born with the blessedness of a right heart from the beginning of their days, and some are born like the rest of us (or at least most certainly, me) with unlimited impatience and insatiable ignorance. Ross was most certainly the former, and throughout his days, never seemed to lose that heart, though the callous world may try.

Ross continued to play and perform on until every last ounce of day’s end poured out of the greenhouse, and when night’s beginning had poured itself in fully and infallibly (for the moment, at least). He opened his eyes and smiled, the dark brown deep as the night sky with the shimmer of the stars trickling out, flowing down his cheek. This is, as some say, how shooting stars are formed: by God’s tears flowing out of adoration for the beauty of how all that he has created harmonizes within and without itself. And mayhaps that is why Ross seemed so wise.

However it may be, one thing is certain: there is little else in this world that is worth remembering or retelling than the Saxophone’s Soliloquy played that night in the Demey’s greenhouse.

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