Play on, music. Play on.
Standing neatly by as one darkened piece to an encirlcling black and pink backdrop, the scene spoke. A father quivers back tears. Billowed waves of white flow down from the sides of his eldest daughter, just touching the floor. Four feet turn innocently, interrupted by each other only enough to suggest their motion is no common one. The music plays.
Suddenly the sight of this man speaks out to the one watching as if by name. A man never known, never spoken to beyond a half smile earlier that same day, becomes a lesson. Play on, music.
One man struggles to compose himself within a foreign moment, holding his child for the final time before entrusting her into the care of another man. In doing so, without knowing it, he stirs deeply the soul of an onlooker who realizes in an indelible instant that he is now far closer to that moment--kissing his beloved child goodbye for her own sake--than he will ever again be to the happily imagined one, the man who dances with the girl next.
Such a thought nearly seats a person itself. Too much for anyone to grasp all at once, it leads quickly to another.
Play on, music. Play on.
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