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Trio

They were always a happy bunch. As long as i can remember, I have never seen them fight or grumble; quite the opposite, they were often laughing and sharing stories. Despite their often subtle differences, there was a profound sameness to them, a common essence. Often, they would be seen sitting silently in a circle, enjoying each other’s company. 

Papa, a stout gentleman with a long white beard, began to sing. A low, deep rumble saturated the room. It rolled like a sweet earthquake that cracked the foundations of creation and healed them at the same time. As he sang, Figlio (though we called him Fig) watched with admiration. Fig was young man and strong, but hadn’t grown a beard yet. It is said that he and Papa are related somehow, but no one can quite figure out how. Fig admired Papa, and I mean he really admired him. It was to the point that you could almost see the old man in every move Fig made.

Fig’s voice broke over the baritone of Papa with a sweet tenor melody overlaying the foundation of deep song. They must have practiced this; it was perfect. We had never heard them (or anyone for that matter) sing before, marvelous. Fig’s voice added energy to the music. This wasn’t just a song for considering, this was a song for dancing as well. Fig had a way of making you want to dance.

Amico, the third of the group, is a very unassuming fellow. Often to get him to talk, you had to pester him with question. He sat silently listening. We were so enraptured at this point, we only wanted to sit and listen as well. Obviously, this song was the most beautiful thing in creation and there was no way to improve it.

Amico reached back and pulled out a…thing. A modern human would say it looked like a fiddle but in the end, no one would care what it looked like. What was special was how it sounded. Imagine a violin with the life of a cymbal, the sweetness of a flute, the power of a drum, the restraint of a harp, the passion of a cello, and the restfulness of raindrops bound up with the songs of birds and the crashing of waves on the beach. That is the sound this thing, this instrument, made. We had never heard anything like it.

Clearly it was designed with Papa and Fig’s voices in mind. The swelling bass and tenor flowed smoothly and sweetly higher and lower. It was like climbing a mountain of song without getting tired and sking down the other side. The song was exhilarating, but not tiring. It reminds me of the feeling when I see newlyweds kiss. It may have gone on for fifteen minutes or a thousand years, we didn’t know or care. We just waited for the next sweet note to come flying up to us and become part of us.

Papa was clearly in the lead, though I can’t say how I knew that. In the center of that circle all of the song blended evenly and deeply (secretly, several of us thought about moving into the center, but were afraid to go uninvited). Suddenly, a darkness opened between them. It was absolute, nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. It was height and width and depth with nothing in them. Emptiness, but only empty because there was a space to have nothing in, if you know what I mean.
This emptiness was Papa’s doing. That rumbling song opened that space and held it open. Into that emptiness, Amico poured into it…something. Except he didn’t give it anything except a quality. He gave it vastness. It was empty before, now it was empty and enormous. It made me dizzy to look into that deep distant darkness. Amico had way of adding feeling to something.

Papa’s song changed tone and in front of him there was a ripple in the space. It was tiny and stationary, suddenly Fig’s voice exploded into a powerful tenor and the ripple suddenly gained energy and power, heat and speed. Amico’s music grabbed the thing and added his own flavor to the energy and it burst into colors: blues, reds, and greens. Papa laughed and the ripples fell into the space and filled it. The ripples filled it with light, the ripples were light.

Papa immediately began singing out particles and waves (and waves that were particles and particles that were waves) and Fig would infuse them with energy Amico would give them purpose and beauty. Suddenly the particles and waves were falling into the vastness so quickly we couldn’t keep up. The song kept climbing and climbing to a crescendo. The looks on their faces were contagiously joyful. They were clearly excited to be doing this, to be creating.

Flash…..

The space exploded. It was filled with energy. The sound of the explosion and the light it produced would have destroyed us if not for Papa holding it back while Fig poured more and more energy into it. Amico quietly played granting the space qualities like wonder, beauty, he really was the artist of the three.

We watched for at least a minute but it may have been a billion years, it’s hard to keep track of time with one of those three around. Suddenly the song took a somber, sad tone. Papa’s deep voice felt like a funeral. A great tear ran down his cheek onto his beard. The sort of tear that could fill the oceans and overflow them with sadness.

Fig looked pained but determined. Amico came over and gave Fig a deep embrace and came and kissed the Papa on the forehead.

“Papa, it is necessary for them. This is for the best.” said Fig.

“I know.” said Papa. “It must be this way.”

The three looked into the space together, always together.

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