2011-10-12 - 10:42 a.m.

Went to the symphony last night. The guest orchestra, from Saint Petersburg, played a Tchaikovsky symphony and it was beautiful. After the intermission, I got split up from the rest of the crew, and so I took a seat in the back, by myself. There were empty seats. There was a family scattered in the two rows in front of me: a mom, a dad, a grandfather, and three young boys. The youngest boy, bowl-haired and fidgety, about seven, sat with the mother. The oldest boy--right on the cusp of being a teenager--and the middle boy--about nine--sat together directly behind the others. I sat behind them.

All three were in constant motion, fidding with their hands, tying their shoes, generally adjusting their entire selves as often as possible. Then I noticed the older boy looking at the middle boy. His shoulders rose and fell and I could tell he was laughing. He poked at the younger boy, who turned in his seat, in order to get a look. His little face erupted into a violent smile. I followed his eyes.

The middle brother, the object of their attention, was slumped deep in his seat so that only a brown half-moon of hair was visible, rocked, side to side. I leaned forward and saw that his eyes were closed. He was swaying to the music. He was lost in it. I looked at the brothers. They were cracking themselves up, mocking him, as brothers do. And again to the middle boy. He was oblivious, enveloped by the music, absorbed in what came through his ears, his bones, and ended up inisde of him. And then he opened his eyes, saw what was going on, smiled, and it was over.

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