Late Tokaji and a Vuillaume sigh
A Shostakovich quartet spins on the turntable while Tokaji pools in a narrow glass. The 1873 Vuillaume rests on its chair like an old companion; Beethoven purrs against my calf. After dinner a Sobranie, a long exhale, and the bowing in my bones finally hushes.
Crossing the river earlier, a silver‑haired man walked ahead whose quiet posture unstitched a memory—not of applause but of being seen and tended. No more performing for strangers; what sings now is a room shared with someone twice my age who has weathered his storms and can simply be present.
Crossing the river earlier, a silver‑haired man walked ahead whose quiet posture unstitched a memory—not of applause but of being seen and tended. No more performing for strangers; what sings now is a room shared with someone twice my age who has weathered his storms and can simply be present.
Share