Senior Recital

It was a stormy night, and the sea was rough. The waves furiously smashed against the rocks. I laid in bed listening to the storm and sea. Tonight was great, and this was the best way to wind down.

Just hours ago, I got dressed for my big night. I paced the hall of practice rooms before finally settling in to one and beginning my warm up routine. Before I knew it, the audience started to trickle in to the recital hall.

As the performance time drew near, I felt my heart start to race a bit. I just have to get through it. Live music is an abstract form of art. It exists in only one moment and then it’s gone forever. I only get one chance to make it right. My hands shake. I grip my sheet music tighter.

The hall was soon packed. This was it. I’ve worked so hard for the past four years, and it all came down to this. An hour of performing was all that stood between being a student and becoming a graduate. The lights dimmed. The hall was silent. I walked out on stage.

My accompanist started to play. One deep breath, and I began. In that first solo, I was very technical, insistently counting and perfecting each and every note. Sweat beaded on my forehead. I cherished that last note a minute and ended. There was a slight, deafening moment of silence, then applause. I felt the tension in my upper body ease. I got this.

I continued on. I felt strong and lost myself in the music. Before I knew it, I was taking my final bow. More applause. What a rush – and a relief.

After praise from my professors and fellow students, I got in my car. There was lightning in the distance, and a few fat raindrops hit the windshield. I hurried back to my family’s seaside home.

First, a hot shower. My sweat and anxiety washed down the drain. Then bed. The storm and sea lulled me to sleep. Tomorrow I wake up a graduate.