Symphonic Suite

Life is a symphonic suite

Filled with a variety of compositions.

There is no conductor of my orchestra

Because there is no guide I need.

I live my life without specific plans

Like playing an atonal piece.

Although I am just a viola,

I steal the spotlight from the concertmaster.

Alongside are the people who influence

My crescendo, my decrescendo, my accelerando, my ritardando.

We work together in a tutti manner,

Even through my dolce, maestoso, grandioso, fiero, or staccato days.

It is the proud trumpet section

That muffles my agitato days.

It is the canorous violins

That sing my melodic happiness.

I listen to the deep, rich cello section

And play my part according to theirs just to please the audience.

I blend myself in with another section

Careful not to outperform the melody.

But just when the audience least expects it,

Just when the music transitions from

Allegro to andante to adagio,

That is when I am heard.

It is my solo that draws attention.

The attention of the audience, the attention of the musicians,

And the attention of me.

They think, “There is no solo in this piece!”

But they are wrong,

Because I am performing my improvised solo

Through the glares and looks of confusion.

I make my way to the center front of the stage.

My medley is beautiful and my body plays excitedly.

My body sways the medley into a minuet

And soon it is an espressivo elegy

Where my vibrato is soulful and empathetic.

But I can’t stay with this.

No. The audience is bored.

I have to gradually get back up to my overture.

But I get too excited and the overture becomes a thriller instead.

Suddenly, I am wondering,

Why am I playing to their pleasure instead of my own?

Why do I have to sacrifice my feelings for them?

They are nothing to me but spectators.

This is MY suite

And it will be anything but sweet if I want.

And now I am playing what I feel,

Not what they want to hear.

My fingers are violently striking the fingerboard

So hard they are bleeding.

The background music fades out.

My bow is slamming my strings.

Harder. Snap. There goes my A string.

Harder. Snap. There goes my D string.

Harder. Snap. Snap. There go my G and C strings.

Harder. Snap. There goes the bridge.

Much of my instrument is broken,

So I fall to the ground and sit there in my pool of despair and bow hairs.

There is a moment of deafening silence screaming through the auditorium,

Before the concertmaster comes in slowly,

Building up another piece with a smooth transition.

My mates backstage get me another viola and bow.

They pick me up to lead me back in

And we play as one again.

The audience thinks, “Wow, that was loud and rude of her.”

But in the end,

I close out the song,

And all they can think about is me.

Because it is my beautiful fermata that concludes the evening.