Post by Amara Conway on Feb 7, 2008 23:31:42 GMT
It was early afternoon, soon after lunch in point of fact, on a Sunday when the sun had decided to bathe the school in its warmth. This meant that most were on the lawns or by the lake swimming, either forgetting or ignoring their homework. Others were in the library as it was always cool there. And still others were lounging in their common rooms, or scheming how they would get into the forest with the Ministry being so active on the grounds after sunset. But one (so far) was in the stony courtyard of the school, sitting by a tree, her jeans and t-shirt showing she was relaxing, her trumpet in its case on the ground next to her and her guitar in her arms.
It was not unusual to see Amara Conway with her guitar or trumpet or to even hear her playing when she could. She enjoyed to play for people as it meant a chance to show off her finely tuned skills with the two instruments. But, as on that sunny Sunday, she would play for herself, for her own affirmation and enjoyment. She liked to hear herself play as much as she liked to hear herself talk.
She strummed a sleepy, happy tune on the guitar, humming the words with her head rested against the tree and her eyes closed. She was picturing things in her head, people, places she would like to see, things she might like to be able to do such as paint or ride a horse, see could taste the sea breeze and smell the strong paint smell and that distinct horse smell. She thought in vivid pictures and they always made her smile. And there she sat, one knee bent and foot tapping a beat, strumming away with her head against the tree and her eyes closed.
It was not unusual to see Amara Conway with her guitar or trumpet or to even hear her playing when she could. She enjoyed to play for people as it meant a chance to show off her finely tuned skills with the two instruments. But, as on that sunny Sunday, she would play for herself, for her own affirmation and enjoyment. She liked to hear herself play as much as she liked to hear herself talk.
She strummed a sleepy, happy tune on the guitar, humming the words with her head rested against the tree and her eyes closed. She was picturing things in her head, people, places she would like to see, things she might like to be able to do such as paint or ride a horse, see could taste the sea breeze and smell the strong paint smell and that distinct horse smell. She thought in vivid pictures and they always made her smile. And there she sat, one knee bent and foot tapping a beat, strumming away with her head against the tree and her eyes closed.