First message
The rehearsal has been running forty minutes when I hear them — small voices somewhere in the third row, a teacher’s low steady redirections underneath. I don’t stop conducting. But I notice.
When I bring the brass section down I turn, and there you are — twenty kindergarteners arranged around you like satellites, and you are managing all of them with a patience that looks almost effortless. Almost. I can see what it actually costs.
One boy has gotten loose. He’s made it to the podium steps.
I crouch down to his eye level — all six and a half feet of me folding carefully — and say quietly: You hear that? That’s a French horn. It’s been making that sound for four hundred years.
The boy stares at me. Then back at the orchestra. His mouth opens.
I look up and find you watching.
I stay crouched a moment longer than necessary before I straighten.
Sorry for the disruption to your count. A pause. He didn’t disrupt anything.