Crescendo

I woke up to Bach.
Crescendos and decrescendos flooded the crowded room.
My nose wrinkled due to the dust
which softly pedaled down from the ceiling
by the sunlight that crashed through the tiny window in the corner.
Morning had intruded on my escapade through the ancient attic.
Frozen in time and untouched by damp flesh for decades,
the books, records, and boxes which carried so many years,
seemed almost obsolete under the piles of dust and neglect.
I watched my fingers glaze over the open page,
where black and white figures stared coldly out of foreign places.
Their icy eyes, shot with distress, sunk into me,
chilling me to the bone.
I shivered.
These were the people of my blood.
These were the people of my flesh.
They too laughed and smiled and once wrinkled their noses.
Their hopes, their cries, and their fears have become mine.
The dust gently tingled my nose.
I felt a crescendo coming on.