Dear cello:

I know, I know. You’re sitting there in your case, trying to not look disapproving and to be supportive and understanding at the same time. The house is in chaos; we move in a day and a half. I’m exhausted from packing and running around doing all the new-house imminent-move stuff that has to get done.

But think: in a week, we’ll be mostly unpacked. The new house is a house, which means I will be able to sit down and play you whenever the fancy strikes me without worrying about disturbing neighbours above, below, or beside me. I have a room for my office that’s bigger then this one, and I’ll bet the acoustics are great. And when we finish the attic and my office moves up there, think of how resonant things will be in a big room like that.

Lessons stopped for the summer; I miss them, too. But we’ll start again in September, and orchestra will begin again, too, and we’ll get back into the swing of things. We’ll muddle through the first few weeks of regaining ground we’ve lost through not playing regularly through the two summer months, and then by early October we’ll be fine again. I may even earmark some money from my project delivery cheque at the end of November for a new bow upgrade. Wouldn’t that be nice? Let’s do that.

I love you. I miss you, but I just can’t do it right now. A week. Ten days. How does that sound? You, me, the metronome once I unearth it from whatever box I put it in my accident (it was an accident, I swear), maybe a café au lait, and some nice, mellow long tones in the new house?

Love, me.