Love Bites: Sympathetic Resonance

I found my soulmate on Gumtree. I rent her from a lady called Cindy. She costs £35 a month. Her name is Cassandra and she is a harp. I admit, I have begun to empathise with the woman who fell for the Eiffel Tower. To my surprise, Cassandra offers me everything I could want from a partner and maybe a little bit more.

Over the last eighteen months, we have gotten to know one another. I practise nightly, usually after midnight. By then, my flat is quiet, and moonlight slips in through the window. I prop myself up on a pile of cushions and sit with Cassandra, playing the same phrase over and over. I listen for the difference between one touch and another: the weight of my fingers, their position on the strings, the feeling of each note as the harp’s body vibrates against my chest. Gently, I figure it out, until slowly, my hands simply know where to go.

I make mistakes often. I can’t read music. I forget every piece the moment I learn the next one. I am forgiven; I try again. I lose track of time just listening. Sometimes I look up and realise the music has taken me elsewhere: an old stone church, a ballroom in Vienna, a ceilidh. As I grow more confident, chords, arpeggios, harmonics and glissandos spill out of my hands and my mind begins to stray. I remember the fern I haven't watered, the 45 unanswered emails, the last time I heard my father’s laugh. These things become part of the music as my hands tense up and release. The more I play, the more I bring to her. Each night, her sound shifts with the way I feel.

Every now and then, I laugh and, from across the room, one of her strings will sing. She recognises my voice.