I can hear it. The music. For the first time in three years, but so familiar it's like the arms of an old friend around me, telling me everything will be okay. It's faint in the beginning, and at first I believe that I'm making it all up in my mind. I can't actually be hearing it. But the distinct yet gentle aching of the violin is unmistakeable, and that is when I'm sure. This is not just in my head. And that realization takes my breath away.


The last thing I remember hearing before the crash is music. Beethoven's Symphony No. 5 in C minor, to be exact. I remember. I had been listening to the cheap little silver MP3 player I had gotten for my birthday a few years back. I was so proud of that thing - I took it everywhere with me. I didn't listen to the Top 40 radio station much and I didn't have any older siblings that listened to it, so my MP3 was filled with all classical music. Beethoven, Mozart, Shumann, Bach, you name it. And I loved it. I loved the way that the musicians put so much feeling into their playing, making the sonata or concerto come alive.


My parents would look at me and chuckle when they saw me sitting in the backseat of our car every day, my headphones in and my eyes closed, my head bobbing infinitesimally to the piece. They told me I looked like a mini-adult, sitting there with my legs crossed. I didn't care what they thought, though. I didn't care what anyone thought. I had found my own little family, the songs as comforting as a hug when I was having a bad day. And I wanted to be part of it. So one day when I was nine, I sat down with my parents and told them I wanted to play an instrument. They looked at each other with a wariness that I didn't understand at the time. "Christina, you'll have to practice every single day and you're not going to be good right off the bat. It takes a long time." they said. But I was insistent. I promised I would work hard.


They looked at each other again. "Well, alright. We'll think about it. What instrument did you have in mind?"


I had already made up my mind months ago. "I want to play the violin." I said firmly. I could see them internally debating with themselves, but they both knew there was no point trying to reason with a nine year old. I had my mind set on it.


And the rest is history. It wasn't hard to tell I was gifted. I learned so quickly that I skipped two grades in the violin in the first four months, and still didn't find it challenging enough. At eleven years old, I had already surpassed the level that my instructor was at, and I hadn't even been taking it two years. My parents were glowing with pride, but they tried not to give me too much praise. They told me that they wanted me to keep challenging myself, and didn't want me to think that just because they were very proud of my accomplishments, that meant I had done all I needed to do. But I didn't need them to motivate me… my passion for music motivated me to keep improving. I practiced for hours a day, in my own little world when I was playing. I was in love.


And then the accident happened. My aunt, Debby, was driving me home from my violin lesson, and the roads were icy from the mid-January flash freeze. My mom was a nurse at the local hospital and she had to work late that night and my dad was travelling for his business, so Aunt Debby offered to take me. Normally if the weather was this bad I would have said not to bother, but a recital was coming up and Miss Webb, my instructor, told me it was important that I came to this lesson. So I did. Driving home, as usual, I was listening to my favourite, Beethoven. I didn't see what happened next, but somebody attempted to explain it to me afterwards. From what I got watching the hand gestures and using my very basic lip-reading skills, a car was speeding down the slippery, uneven country road and spun out of control and collided with our car.


And I was in the passenger seat, the exact place that the other car crashed into us. According to the doctors, my head hit something hard with great force, causing me to lose my hearing almost immediately. I was in a drug-induced coma for three days, as they sliced and stitched and repaired my fractured back and ruptured spleen, not to mention the many gashes and bruises that patterned my body. Aunt Debby managed to get out of the accident with a few bruises and a broken arm, but I got the worst of it, by far. They could repair me physically, but my hearing was gone. And that meant so was my heart.


Music was the one thing that got me through life, through all the bad times and good times, and even those mundane times when it made the day better. As I lay on the sterile hospital bed in my sterile hospital gown and gauze covering almost every visible inch of my body, not even able to listen to the regular BEEP, BEEP, BEEP of the heart monitor that would have been at least somewhat soothing, I felt as though I could break apart as easily as a china doll. What would I do now the love of my life… was gone?


My parents were devastated, but they supported me, and they even tried to get me to try something else for a change. Soccer, art, poetry, they tried everything. But all I wanted was to play music and be able to enjoy it. But it was just silence around me, an empty void that, during the night when there was nothing else to think about, was like a hole in my chest that couldn't be filled. All my dreams were gone. Instead of Juilliard, it was Deaf Ed school. Instead of music, it was sign language.


A few years passed, and I was depressed. I tried not to show it around my parents, because I knew what they would do. They would put me in therapy, or move me to a different school. I didn't want someone to try and figure out my problems, because they couldn't. No one could. Every night, I would take down my violin that had somehow survived the crash, and run my hands over the rich, glossy wood and smooth, steel strings, and then pick up my bow and play a simple sonata, hoping that maybe I would hear an inkling of a sound. But I never could.


Finally I just… gave up. I stopped trying to hear anything, and I stopped playing the violin, period. A layer of dust collected on the case that never got opened. I put it in the back of my closet, shoving the memories away, convinced that forgetting about all of it was better than grieving.


And then it was my Aunt Debby who bought me tickets for my fourteenth birthday to go see a famous violinist from New York who was playing in the area. Front row seats. As untactful as that sounds, I knew she meant well, and I accepted.


And now here I sit, suddenly after years of silence, and I can hear it. I can hear the beautiful waterfall of notes cascading through the air, I can hear the emotion of the musician weaving through the song as she tells her story. That sad, complex, wonderful story, like her diary being read out in front of the crowd. The piece is so raw, yet so defiant, like she is telling us that yes, she has struggled, but she has made it out okay. Small beads of perspiration have formed between her eyebrows, and I can see the small, dark patches of sweat just peeking out from around the back of her dress. It doesn't disgust me, in fact it fascinates me, showing me how much she gets into her playing. It makes my heart hurt when I remember how I used to be like that.


By the time it is over, and the crowd is on their feet for a standing ovation, silent tears are pouring down my cheeks, not just for me, but for everyone in this audience who have gone through hardships in their lifetime. I am young, but I have experienced much more than most my age, good and bad. And it all managed to work out.


I don't tell my aunt about what happened. When I get home, I only have one thing in mind. My parents are in bed, so I creep up to my room and into my closet. I pull out the worn leather case, and I brush off the dust. I go down the stairs, out the back door, and stand outside in the warm spring night. A cricket chirps, and I can hear the rumble of cars in the distance, sounds I took for granted before but now are ones that I cherish. I unlatch my case, pull out my violin and my bow, positioning it under my chin. And suddenly, the night goes silent. Like the world is waiting for me. So I take a deep breath, place my fingers on the strings, and begin to tell my story.