He played on.

An old, old man used to play the accordion most nights while sitting on a bench in front of my apartment complex in Konakovo, Russia. I can't imagine he's still alive, but if he is I assure you he would still be out playing; long after dark he would begin his mournful-pop melodies. His voice was other-worldly, but his words were never enunciated quite enough for me to understand. The other neighbors would yell and fuss. Even the crazy old woman who called "Vassya, Vassya, Vassya..." for hours on end to retrieve her long-dead-cat from the out-of-doors would join in the chorus against this old, old man and his lovely music.

I loved the music. I loved every second of it. So deeply authentic and heartfelt - a melody and mood that could paint a portrait - I felt I knew him. His fingers cascading along the white and black dots so quickly, his soul played the notes his fingers missed.

More than anything else, I loved his music because he played on when the world told him to stop. He didn't check the public-opinion polls before making decisions. He played on. He didn't aspire to make the charts or any other such non-sense. He played for the one he loved (and how long had she been dead? Years? Decades?) and it was beautiful.

Sometimes I begin to play my own melody; but when the world crushes in, I stop abruptly. I make sad attempts at apologies to my neighbors and go back inside. The song still rages on in my heart, but my fingers and voice remain still. I make sad attempts at apologies to the one I love and try to change the subject.

Perhaps I'll never play the best or be the best at really anything. Maybe I'll always fall just a little short of "good enough" to serenade the world. But perhaps some day, I'll sit outside at night and play and sing with all my heart. Maybe some will tune it out, others might find it beautiful, and still others will scream and shout. But at least I will have held the courage to make the music for the God I love.

Perhaps some day.