Antennae

I held out one finger on each hand in front of me, parallel, and the rest of my fingers naturally coiled into zeros. In between was what made thousands of bodies stay seated in thousands of chairs while Ludovico Einaudi played piano on stage. The sight of a nearly bald man in a black suit sitting for two hours, wearing glasses, shaking his gently head from side to side as if a typewriter. His fingers sneaked and sleepwalked on the keys. I was watching him, my upheld fingers tuning forks. I was surprised at my own fear of using the present tense, lest it slip away and no longer be known; at least this way, I could keep a memory, an imperfect imagination that would remind me later that I was there. Though I am scared, too, that when I remember, I will have forgotten about his shut eyelids, his elevated back rising and falling like his chest once did while a baby. Hence, the music between my fingers.