Thursday, 19 May 2011


He ran his fingers over the strings and my busy boy stopped dead in his tracks. He picked out the first few notes of the melody and John's eyes widened with wonder.

He settled himself behind his instrument, flexed his fingers in front of him and then music flowed from his fingertips into the expectant silence of the room.

The exquisite melody rolled from the strings and tumbled through the air, and as it trembled tentatively into our hearts I watched my boy grow stiller and more silent than he's ever been in his life.

I watched enchantment and enthrallment paralyse his face, and I watched wonder and absorption flood every ounce of his being.

And as I looked around at the expressions of the people in the room, from that of my Granny whose smiling serenity brought a tear to my eye, to that of my little boy who was gripping on to my knee to steady himself in his trance, I realised that my little brother, the musician, was magic.

Because the music that he wrung from the strings of his guitar sang of beauty at the deepest, purest and most exquisitely powerful level, and it didn't matter whether you were at the very beginning of your life or the very end of it; you felt it just the same.

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