The Performance

The empty auditorium had a hush like the sound of a hornet’s nest in winter. The one I remember bringing into the house long ago. It had been delicate like a thousand layers of rice paper, layers that wisped off into the air. The wind chilled my face and my hands were red as roses. I watched those bits fly. I ran the nest back home. It had lines like tree rings. It was oblong like a deformed football. I found it in the woods and hung it on the wall. I dreamt of bees flying and awoke to notice the nest was alive. All those hibernating hornets were warmed by the central air system and my breath.
The auditorium sounded like that nest under the tree in the woods. The piano glistened like dew on the garden in spring. You knew it meant something would blossom here. You went to the piano so slowly I didn’t think you were moving but the aisles receded behind you.
I could see you were nervous. I told you don’t worry, the audience will be here. You said you wanted a particular group. I asked what you were looking for. You said you could only perform for those that understood you.
Our dressing room was just an RV out back. I told you I would give you a head massage by moonlight so you could relax.
The crowd came while we counted the shooting stars. They came in their rags and their horns. They came in pairs and droves. They brought you flowers wrapped in belts and watches wrapped on cactus.
You played a thousand songs, until your claws bled. Until all the buffalo were sleeping. Your range was home.