The cold, chilly day in Colorado gave no hint of spring officially six weeks away. I was tired of winter’s grip, doubting the spring that would surely come. The trees were still bare, the streets of Old Town in Fort Collins still devoid of the color and life so typical of this and most college towns.
Jim and I, and Jim’s son Steve, braved the winds of change sweeping down from the majestic Rocky Mountains in the distance so Steve could show us all the points of interest. He was connecting the dots and sharing the memories that had coalesced into the defining moments of his life for the last few years.
And then, like that first crocus that breaks through the cold crust of winter, the most colorful of pianos in the middle of an otherwise drab and deserted Old Town Square made it clear there is always hope where there is music.
And there was music! The gift of a young man deep into tickling those ivory keys was heavenly.
I’d like to think the beautiful notes were those of Mozart, but I’m not sure; it really doesn’t matter. What mattered was the beauty of the moment, the explosive expression of one individual and the knowledge that those exquisite notes could carry so much hope.