I can't read anything else about the attacks on Paris. The sorrow overwhelms me. I have been mostly speechless since it happened last Friday, trying to wrap my brain around something so senseless and cruel. It took me days to even draw in my sketchbook. I scoured the internet for quotes that would make me feel better. I avoided social media because it was too much to face. I am still mostly numb.
This morning in Paris, a man dragged his baby grand piano into the Place de la Republique and sat down on that bench in front of all those flowers and all those mourning people. And he played. The whole crowd fell silent to listen to the haunting chord progression of "Imagine" by John Lennon.
There is an innate need to do something in the wake of such tragedy. This man pulled his piano through the streets. The look on his face was almost out of obligation, as if the music he was going to make was the only shelter from the aching inside of him. He played for the flowers, and for the posters, and for the mourners. He did not say a word.
When his job was done, he pulled the cover over the keys, took his piano and went home.