“I could only see his hands, and with that, the hint of who he might be that was hidden from view…”
About a week ago I attended my son’s final wind symphony concert in high school. He was part of his school’s award-winning band for four years and this was his final performance. He’s the younger of my two children and I was already in the midst of the weeks-long crying jag that comes with seeing your children finish the milestone that is high school. The students were arrayed on the stage in their tuxedos and black formals and playing highly complicated literature, most of which goes over my head musically. Ethan plays the tenor saxophone, so he sits in the third row and it’s hard to see him when they are seated. Since I knew I wouldn’t be able to really see him play, I chose a seat up front on the house left side of the audience for an overall good view. While they were warming up, I glanced toward where I knew he would be and I saw that, among the students in the first two rows, the music stands, and the instruments, I had a perfectly-framed view of his hands on his saxophone keys. That’s all I could see of him. Just his hands.
I watched him move his fingers on the keys during the warm-up and something began to play itself out in my mind. I remembered a photo of him the day he was born with his little hands crossed under his chin. He had long fingers and my husband remarked that he had the hands of a piano player. I wondered, sitting in my seat in the auditorium what it would be like if, 18 years ago, someone had shown me this view of his hands and said “That’s your boy when he’s 18. You can watch him from here, but you can’t see his face.”
I thought about that—about what this view would reveal to me. It would show me that he was alive and well and a musician. It would show me that he was of medium build and that his fingers were still proportionally long. It would say to me that he was part of something and that he was artistic at some level. I could only see his hands, and with that, the hint of who he might be that was hidden from view. I would have wanted to stand up and move to a better position so I could see his face. More than that, I would have wanted to walk onto the stage and talk with him, hear his voice, kiss his cheek, and hold him close to me.
The concert began and I watched his hands as he played his saxophone. At one point he moved his music stand slightly and I could see the side of his jaw and the edge of his glasses. More hints as to his identity. What would that have meant to me as a young mother? I can’t say what it would have meant then, but I know what it meant that special night. I know the young man with the saxophone hands. I know how he wears his hair just a bit long so he is constantly flipping it out of his eyes. I know that he loves cars and wants to study engineering in college. I know that he’s sensitive and clumsy, just like his mother. He’s also analytical and reasonable, just like his father. Those are things I couldn’t have known just from watching his hands, but they are all parts of him that make up the special young man he is. I wonder what people think of me if they only see a glimpse? And what assumptions do I make of others with only a glance?
I have two wonderful sons, both of whom have their own characteristics and personalities. If I could have looked into the future when they were born I would have been a happy mother to see who they would turn out to be. The joy of it is that I got to see it develop instead—one day at a time.
Leave a Reply