Gemotions

The late afternoon sun warmed Elias’s face as he sat on the park bench. He’d brought a thermos of chamomile tea and a worn copy of Rilke, perfectly content. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the ancient oak above, creating a soft, whispering sound that seemed to hum in harmony with the gentle thrum in his chest. A street musician, a young woman with a cello, began to play. Then, his ears perked up. He recognized the melody. It was his.

His fingers, which had been idly tracing the lines of the poem, stilled. A smile crept across his face, not wide, but a slow, relaxed curve. The music filled the space around him, familiar but reborn in a different voice. He closed his eyes, allowing the notes to wash over him, a gentle tide.

He felt the corners of his mouth lift slightly higher, almost imperceptibly. He felt a profound sense of calmness as he absorbed the notes. The street musician clearly had her own take on his music, and he enjoyed the freshness.