Bridal March

It took us a long time to understand what he wanted. He wasn't the kind of patient one would ask if he had a special request--not because of ill will, but because he just didn't seem like he was conscious enough to make a request. He looked my age, wrapped in blankets and EEG electrodes for epilepsy monitoring. Speaking was difficult for him.

"Can...you play...wedding...music."

Here comes the bride. All dressed in white.

The melody that flowed from the violin sounded more like a lullaby than a bridal march. A strangely apologetic lullaby. What was I apologetic of? I kept asking myself. For playing an inappropriate piece? No, for playing a joyous piece with sacred implications in an inappropriate setting? No, for taking so long to understand him?

No, for doubting for a second that it is possible for him to get up one day, marry the girl of his dreams and have healthy, beautiful children.

He clapped laboriously, his left hand banging against the brace that his right hand wears. He didn't know--or didn't mind--what I was thinking. What I thought didn't matter. The song was exactly what he wanted.

"He said he wanted you to play at his wedding," a nurse later told me.

It would be an honor, dear stranger. It would give me utmost joy.