Today I looked at an accordion and felt so ashamed for not looking at him before. Not for the music, I don't know that I was meant to have any opinion on music. I had the sudden realization that the accordion breathes his own air. And despite the unflattering flapping required of the player, he hums with considerably more suave than his handler.
I think he has always wanted to be a violin, saxophone and piano. I think that the accordion has always wanted to be so many things at once, to everyone.
To have lungs you cannot balloon on your own, a diaphragm that rests between someone else's sweaty palms must be a complicated feeling. You should love this thing if you don't already. Pity may be the first step, but then you sway into empathy and finally you're just trotting around and forgot that you were concerned, and it feels like a minor love. One that will open and close as you will it to. Like a body that exhales never full sadness or elation, just the perfect sigh of one who has too many aspirations and no one really to please. One that houses reeds, grilles and bellows only to make a singing sound from a box.
One that must look toward the organ from time to time and wonder why he never had the baroque vestments, the 75 voices and centuries of reverence.
Aerophone, today, now looking at me like I owe him something. I can only give him the consideration I didn't gift him before. But that will inflate and escape him just as fast as all the false acts of respiration.
It's not me you want to love you, Saratovskaya Garmonika or whatever your name is. It's not me, is it, Trikitixa? I don't know for sure, he doesn't seem to say much if you don't fondle his buttons. A minor love it must be.
