July, July

It was about a year ago. The cicadas were buzzing and there was always a dripdripdrip in the background from leaky window air conditioners. I got out my cello a few times to practice, the back of my hand sore from the stretch from first to fourth position. And when I knew I wouldn't improve any more, I set up a microphone, turned off our air conditioner and ceiling fan, and recorded myself playing, the cicadas and drips keeping not-so-great time. Or maybe it was me who was off.