If you were an instrument, my darling

Note: this is entirely a parody of Rachel Swirsky's "If you were a dinosaur, my love." In my defense, this was an assignment for English class.

If you were an instrument, my darling, you would be a cello. Your wood would be a deep, smooth mahogany, and you would ring with a warm, full sound, like the low tenor of human-you’s voice. Your strings would be worn and well-loved by the kisses of rosin scuff marks. You would sing familiar tunes of Bach and Elgar on concert stages.

If you sang on concert stages, I’d hear you play Elgar’s concerto as a child and I’d fall in love with each winged chord. Your music would touch my soul. For days after, all I would hear would be the tone of your voice. I’d play recording after recording but none of them would match the way you spoke to me.

If nothing could match the way you spoke to me, I’d decide to learn the cello. I’d buy one from a music shop made of cheap red wood. The strings would be tinny and cold and the sounds I made would be scratchy and dull. The metal would leave calluses on my fingertips and I’d sneeze from the rosin whenever I played. Though the sounds I made would never compare to yours, I’d love my cheap dull cello, and I’d feel a rush every time I made music.

If I felt a rush every time I made music, I’d practice and practice until my fingers bled. As I progressed and grew, I’d need larger and better crafted cellos--I would cycle through many, each fancier and more expensive than the last, though none of them would sound as vibrant as you. I’d attend summer programs and music conservatories, and dedicate myself to my craft. I’d play on grander and grander stages, and eventually I’d join a professional orchestra.

If I joined a professional orchestra, I might run into you again. It’s unlikely, sure, but we met in real life, didn’t we? When we met again, I wouldn’t recognize you. You’d be in the arms of another player, and when she played you I’d be wonderstruck by how beautiful you sounded. I would think she was a better cellist than me, and I’d feel a burning jealousy.

If I felt a burning jealousy, I’d practice even harder than before, pouring my body and soul into the art. I’d master every virtuosic technique. I’d rise quickly through the ranks until I was principal cellist. I’d become a soloist, and my favorite piece to play would be Elgar’s Cello Concerto in E Minor--the very same piece I first heard you play, though I wouldn’t remember. I would be a star on stage, and I’d entrance people with my music.

If you were an instrument, my darling, you would not be mine. You’d belong to someone else, and they would love you and be loyal to you. Every time I saw you two together, something inside me would ache, and I wouldn’t know why. I’d have my own instrument though, a lovely maple cello. We’d sing bright and beautiful melodies to audiences packed with people, and that would be enough for me. I would be happy, and I wouldn’t need you to find the pitch of my soul. We’d sit three seats apart forever, and I’d shine on stage without you. Our paths would never have crossed.

If our paths had never crossed, you would never have left me. If I never had you, I would never have felt the painful sting of your loss, of being unwanted. My happiness would not have depended on your voice. You would never have left me wingless and broken and silent.

I’d be glad I never met you, I think. Sometimes I might think about the cello that inspired me. I might reminisce about the first time I heard Elgar’s concerto, and how its beauty drove me to excellence. I might wonder where that cello was with a fond gratitude, but I’d never realize it was you. I’d think about your voice and something inside me would twang a discordant chord, and I’d feel an ache for something I’d never had. But soon I would move on to the next performance, the next stage, the next solo. In the end, I would be happier, and the brilliant notes of my cello would never stop ringing in the air.

(written 10/8/20)