First Concert

windows open the concert hall to the night
warm breezes barely ruffle heavy drapes
drawn across the stage
we sit in obedient rows
chairs painted white and gold
chipped
crushed velvet seat tickling the back of my thighs
I shift
fidget
cringe as my chair wobbles
knocks on parquet floor
my father’s hand reaches out
steadies me
I let out a breath

it is a date
just he and I

hushed voices swishing fans wood scraping wood
all dissolve
into a clarity of silence

curtains part
a woman
her face so dark I strain to see features
stands sheathed in white gown
next to a grand piano

she raises her hand
a sound curls up in the air
hangs there
then explodes into cascading trills
staccato flashes
shimmery molten gems

a note alights on me
sparks a fire in my spine

it was Saigon, 1957
I was eight years old
war would soon engulf our lives

but that night
Marian Anderson sang