PERFECT PITCH
Vanessa Mancinelli

C: The sound of lawnmowers, light bulbs, the draw of the resin on the bow; the ah in the Ave Maria; a sound of firsts, the snap of unripe fruit, the scrape of a medium-sized aluminum chair across a newly-washed linoleum floor. It is the sound of mothers and children, the note that makes new fingers callous and bleed; it is the sound of try again, of one more time.

D: The sound of toast popping, the ignition of a car, the slip of a thumb on a clavicle; the note of movement to an unknown destination; the sound of gas pumps on cold mornings; the second string. It is a red sound. Play a D and the redness that comes from it will fill a cup; it is that kind of sound, a kind of thickness that feels good in the hands.

E: The sound of the third note of a sparrow’s call, the first note of pleasure, her moan in the morning; a metronome keeping time at 120 beats per minute; it is the note that can go wrong, the note that may dip lower, the sound of danger and crumbling earth. It is the sound of a drawing down, the sound of bodies falling in the grass.

F: The sound of telephone busy signals, 5,608 hands clapping, the bright sound of lovemaking; F is the key of the heart, of blood quickening; the minor is love with the light let out; it is a pink sound, a pointed sound, the sound of knives. Strike an F on a keyboard and the note this violin makes will be slightly sharper, the pitch of exhalation after climax.

G: The sound of a key in a door, the note of wholeness and locks; the oh my God, the first string the air plays upon; it is the sound of a shutting out, a completeness-without-you, a green sound that exists on its own, like someone’s hand on another’s back. It is the sound of going away, the sound of cabinets closing; the note of mouths that have forgotten how to open.

A: The sound of school recess bells, television static, first oboe; the hum of an orange-haired woman on the downtown bus with too many shopping bags at her feet; it is the sound of an empty room that wasn’t empty before. It is the tuning note, the turning point, the sound of the body inside, the sound of skin hitting the chin rest, of fingers on a fretless field.

B: The sound of a shattering of wings, the clink of dinner china at the end of the meal; it is a blue sound, an egg sound; the five minutes to curtain, sir, the I won’t come back; the sound of a left foot stepping onto the stage, the dimming of theatre lights, the hushed sound of thousands of breaths held in thousands of throats. It is the sound of miracles to come; the sound of almost there.