The Windwood Residence House
A house is not just a house.
It’s a multiverse of energies and memories - ancient or present, witnessed, lived, or only vaguely remembered, conjured through that mysterious collective consciousness.
Once again, it’s me here, at the end. Alone
With that old friend -
Silence.
Quiet, still, empty.
Siting at the dining table, in front of my black sesame oatmeal, in a hollowing silence except for the ticking clock and the rustling leaves, the fracturing memories and cacophony of sounds, voices, laughter becoming at once louder and clearer yet more distant and muffled. Ungraspable.
Once again, already, I can’t quite remember. I can’t quite name. I can’t do nearly enough justice.
A dining table is not just a dining table.
It’s sacred.
We sat here how many times. In which seats. Eating which feast. Toasting which concert. Laughing at which ridiculous riddle or meme. I stood on which chair, pointing at the whiteboard, overexcited in the last round of Avalon at 1am.
The whiteboard still has the last game stats. And, “Welcome to the Windwood resident House! <3” (Thursday Trash Day!) Groceries: ice cream. (remember to fill up water filter if low!)
The schedule is still there taped right beneath. Color coded, with times adjusted, crossed out, notes and hearts in pencil. Soon to be taken down.
The repertoire list is on the right. Flashes of figures gathered in front, studying the list and order, a sigh or gasp or complaint or two about how much music there is to prepare, aka sightread. The armchair where Maitreyi fell asleep. The couch where one person’s playing pokemon go, another reading school essays, while two of us jammed away on Beethoven.
The keyboard and chairs are now in the hallway waiting to be returned. The laundry room is empty. The intimate delicate electronic notes of Mother Goose still resonating from above.
I haven’t even walked upstairs.
The hallway where we tripped over that big box of high-school prom dresses the night before the masquerade, putting on a ridiculous fashion show instead of sleeping.
The banners, programs, signs, posters that are now in boxes.
The leftover gin, beer, tomato soup still from Good Earth.
Those glowstick wands staring back at me from above the fireplace.
It’s just a house.
Who would’ve known how it could transform in a brief two weeks.
One of us said it at the end at the salon concert. How special. After two weeks of living, rehearsing, and existing in this very house, to say thank you and goodbye to all the most unnamable, endearing, intimate, ridiculous moments we’ve shared and created together, here. To say thank you with music, here in this space. Sitting in those exact same chairs, celebrating our connection one more time, a semi-public yet still intensely private profession of our joy, love, and the intense cherishing of every part of this space - through the language we know, love, and embody best - music. Once again, it’s always just been a giant messy love letter. Every note we play, we feel.
Seeing all these people we’ve fallen so hopelessly in love with through the tiny details we’ve learned, understood, felt about each other, communicated though unspoken ways just by living and spending time together - seeing them with their instruments in front of that crimson wall, lit by the soft orange string lights and lamp - hearing, witnessing, feeling the rush of energy that comes from the most magical of expressions. How deeply, impossibly grateful then we are to be a musician. That this is our life. That we choose and are chosen by music.
In the Schubert, we felt it. There is so much more between each soul that has been exchanged, felt, understood, so many more memories and sentiments shared than we could ever know or recall or articulate, except through the simply profound, intense, raw, pure playing of that music, the listening of that music, together.
And then, in those last moments, afterwards, when the guests have left, a different symphony has returned, and it’s just us again - opening three flavours of icecream, mixing dirty martinis, huddling together to give a derpy Windwood cheer, exchanging deep heartfelt questions, and ending with a bang - our favourite, one last Avalon game.
A house is not just a house.
It’s a whole kaleidoscope of ordinary fairy tales. This is where it begins, and continues. Nothing here is static, or lost, or forgotten. The table remembers. The walls remember. The music remembers.
Fin,
da capo.
