Remembering Rooms

       My earliest memories of playing the viola are tied to a funny looking purple sponge, gross and matted green carpet, and a hard, black viola case with a silver circle marked on the bottom with a sharpie. I remember the slim line of windows paneled in a strip across the back wall just above the rack that held the basses. I remember the high ceiling with the foam panels, cluttered with hair ties that had been shot up there and stuck. I remember the tiny room with a single wall of shelves to house the violins and violas that would hardly ever see an hour of practice. I remember starting out like this, with a mediocre instrument and stuffy middle school orchestra classroom and the crazy lady with the curly black hair, who would soon become a good friend of mine.

       Next summer, I started taking private lessons from that crazy lady, who was in fact not so much crazy as she was passionate and fun. I remember her basement; unfinished with sheets hanging as make shift walls with a futon and a book shelf on opposite sides of the room. I remember her three cats, lazily meandering about as I played, sneaking into my viola case for a quick nap before they were caught and shooed away. I remember the stairs leading down to the basement; they were part of a slim hallway just for stairs, and half way through, there was the door to get inside. Every Thursday evening I would ring the doorbell, listen for my teacher to holler, “Come in” and then open the door, taking two steps up the stairs, closing the door, and fumbling with my case the rest of the way down.

       From my two years of high school orchestra, I remember the spacious white room with the back wall covered in mirrors and lined with racks of cellos. I remember the sketchy looking back room with concrete floors that housed the violins and violas in shelves with doors that made them look like cages, and held our concert uniforms in wooden cabinets stuffed full of black dress bags hung on cheap wire hangers. I remember the auditorium; a black stage with red velvet curtains, with rows of seats at its feet that were never quite filled, and with rows of lights above it, each one shining as if it were a sun.

       Remembering how I came to be the player I am today, it seems, is quite like walking through the empty rooms I once filled with music. I imagine, also, that if I went back and walked through these rooms again, physically, I would hear the music swelling up inside them, despite the literal silence.