It was a sunny Saturday morning and I was making my way through the mindless crowd of people shuffling through the street. I was weaving through the bunches of stalls at the Summer market, looking for something to enliven me.
I finally reached a part of the market were the crowd had thinned out. I sighed, and looked around; from left to right all I could see were vibrant colours and the earthly smell of fresh produce. There were stalls filled with women and their children, selling handmade baked goods. Cultural stalls, with people beckoning to every passer-by to come and buy their soft silks and gorgeous materials.
As I wandered aimlessly through the market stalls, I could hear the most beautiful music playing over the banter of the crowd. It was the sort of music that you would hear at a folk festival, or in a foreign land... With clanging bells and steel stringed instruments all playing to make a collection of sweet sounding melodies.
It was pretty sound compared to the bustling noise of the city streets.
I found myself walking in the direction of this tantalizing music. I instinctively made my way through the stalls and followed the street, getting closer and closer to this wonderful sound.
I could feel the music humming through my body, the strumming of the instruments vibrating through my bones. It was like nothing I had ever felt before. Music is a fabulous thing, and I soon found myself dreaming of my college days...
My father had encouraged me to sing as a child, and I eventually found myself in singing lessons. I loved it so very much. I became good at it, and studied it through my college years.
By my second year of college I was set on becoming a musically inclined artist. A singer/songwriter. But like most things in th arts, it didn't pay well unless you made it to the very top.
So I studied food and hospitality, and left college as a fully trained chef. By that time I had made enough money to open up a restauraunt. Now, I have three of them. All running well and good, but as a passion I am a freelance singing teacher.
The reality of the whirling market place around came back into view when I ran into an old ladies cart, that happened to be filled with cabbages. I felt the thobbing in my leg as the lady began yelling at me in what sounded like Italian. I quickly apologized and rubbed my leg as I walked away. I could faintly hear the sweet music, even though it had been getting louder only a moment ago. Puzzled, I stopped and listening intently; the collection of instrument had indeed slowly died down to just a singular stringed intsrument, playing softly.
It struck me like a dazzling sunset on a summer's evening: the magnificent voice of a girl, singing with the highest, yet sweetest notes. Her voice was like fine champagne glasses, the sight of a new blooming rose bush, the feeling of making love for the first time, the dazed yet stunning feeling you get when everything seems so slow and distant, but you alone are in perfect harmony with the world.
And I swear on all things precious to me, this girl's voice was like divine.
I hurried toward the half moon shaped crowd that were watching what I believed was the source of this glorious sound. I pushed past people, apologizing as I squeezed myself into a position where I could see the origin of this sweet melody.
This girl's voice was like elegant white flower petals dancing along in the wind.
I looked around, and in the centre of the circle I saw her. Dainty lace and a white dress. Petite limbs and small features. How was such a sound coming from such a small girl?
Although she was small, she did not look young. Her body was swaying with the music, her arms were bare, and there was not much of a colour difference between the white dress and her skin. She sang, with her hands gripping her hair. She had a very strong voice, and from my knowledge, a wide range of singing notes. From deep resonating ones, to the highest of floating notes.
And she opened her eyes. Her brilliant green eyes flooded my mind. Then it struck me just as the beautiful sound of her voice had. Skin like porcelain, dotted with tiny golden flecks.
It was the girl from the park. The girl I had seen earlier this week, walking through the garden.
It was the girl from the garden.
