The old man, feeble and stiff, tenderly embraced his beloved cello. A single tear slid down his wrinkled face. His arthritic hands shook as the bow quivered back and forth. He wore an out-of-style jacket, an old fashioned plaid. His shaggy eyebrows glistened with sweat, and his sideburns grew overgrown and wild. His cello, a piece of art, was old and had clearly been used. Decades of polishing made the wood shiny.

           In a scratchy, weak voice, the old man cursed his hands for being so stiff and sore. He suddenly gasped as a spasm of pain swept through his arm. Exhausted, he gently laid his cello in the soft velvet case and lowered himself onto his bed.

           As he lay there, memories of his childhood started to stir in his mind. He remembered coming home after school and practicing the cello for hours. He remembered playing solos in his high school orchestra, and then later in life playing with world known orchestras. Smiling gently, he brought his cello, his life-long friend and partner, close to him and fell asleep.