Kinan

To the Art House, an old flour mill turned into a hotel and gallery, my sister and I went to listen to a fiends son who has become an international Symphonic Clarinetist.

After a minute of silence for the fallen, he started his performance.
He made love to his clarinet and his audience, swaying gently,hypnotizing that imaginary snake, growing the music louder, softer, deeper, harsher always conjuring emotions eloquently, harmoniously, beautifully.

I have not seen him since he was a teen. I grew old and he grew to be famous. And although he lives, like me, in the US, I only managed to hear him in our birth country among faces unknown yet familiar for they are my origin.