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2011
2011 Survey Questions
11 topics in this forum
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In A Word... 1 2 3 4
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Its build-up of cat litter thats meant to be soluble. I'll get a plumber on Monday -
By Olympiczero · Posted
A better one now that I have caught up here! I hope you are having an excellent holiday as well. -
By rusty pins · Posted
Awwww. Someone is failing his potty training! -
By rusty pins · Posted
Power washer for the house from Harbor Freight. It's a gift and was $30 off. Only $69 plus tax. -
Libby’s mother sat near the middle of the audience, right beside Beth, though she barely registered the whispered chatter around her. The auditorium hummed with pre-performance electricity—the rustling of programs, the soft thuds of closed purses, the occasional whispered, Is she next?—but all of it washed past her like sound underwater. Her hands were folded so tightly in her lap she could feel the faint tremor in her fingers, the kind that appeared only when emotion rose faster than she could brace for it. She kept her posture straight—habit, discipline—but inside, everything felt soft and wobbly, like the first step onto a boat you didn’t realize would sway. Beth leaned in, her shoulder brushing gently against hers. “She’s coming,” she whispered, voice warm with expectation, as if she were passing along a secret. She smelled faintly of lavender hand cream. Alyssa nodded eagerly on the other side, her knee bouncing with an energy she didn’t bother hiding. “I can’t believe I get to see her play for real,” she murmured. “Dylan always sent clips, but this—this is different.” There was awe in her voice, but also a touch of nerves, like she wanted to make a good impression on Libby even from the third row. Libby’s mother smiled faintly, the kind of smile that carried a quiet ache. Pride was like that—never clean. It tangled with memory, fear, tenderness, and the ache of watching your child step into a place you could no longer follow. It reminded her of the first time Libby had swung on a playground tire swing, calling, Look, Mommy! right as she spun too high. The same mix of thrill and fear washed through her now. Then the curtain shifted. A ripple passed through the crowd—tiny gasps, straightened spines, programs held still. And Libby stepped into the light. The whole room froze, caught in the first breath of a moment that felt bigger than all of them. She looked otherworldly. Her shimmery white dress didn’t just catch the glow; it seemed to summon it, pulling every fragile beam toward her like she was made of something lighter than air. The fabric was soft and fluid, like moonlight poured into cloth, and the delicate tulle at her shoulders framed her as if she were stepping out of a dream or some lost painting of an angel paused mid-descent. Even the way she moved—slow, measured, careful—felt reverent, like she didn’t want to disturb the air she was walking through. Her mother pressed a hand to her chest. Not because she was overwhelmed—though she absolutely was—but because she suddenly remembered the little girl who once hid behind her legs at school recitals, clutching her skirt so tightly her knuckles turned white. This was not that girl. Libby reached the center of the stage and adjusted her stool, the guitar resting against her knee with the kind of easy familiarity reserved for old friends who understood each other's silences. The audience waited—for a smile, a glance, some flicker of nerves. But Libby kept her eyes down, lashes shadowing her cheeks, her expression serene but focused. She rested her fingers lightly on the strings, just enough to hush the room further. And then she waited. One breath. Another. Time stretched in that hush, elastic and warm. Long enough for people to lean forward without realizing it. Long enough for the quiet to deepen into something tender, something taut. Long enough for her mother to feel the warm flutter of anticipation rise like a small fire inside her ribcage. Only then did Libby begin. ‘O Fortuna.’ The opening chord cut cleanly through the silence, startling and beautiful. Her mother recognized it instantly—the dramatic swell, the sharp edges, the ferocity built into every measure. But Libby didn’t simply play it. She inhabited it. Her fingers moved with a precision that felt almost defiant, each pluck controlled, each transition crisp and deliberate. The stage lights flickered over her hands, turning each movement into a flicker of silver. Yet beneath the precision—oh, beneath it—there was something else. A hint of rebellion. A streak of something untamed threading through each chord, the slightest flare of individuality bending the classical lines just enough to make them hers. A soft push here, a lingering note there. Not mistakes. Choices. A declaration quietly woven into the music. Her mother felt her throat tighten. She’d known her daughter was good. She’d known she practiced late into the night, calluses forming and reforming across her fingertips. She’d known Libby carried a fire somewhere deep in her chest. But she had not understood—until this very moment—how much she’d held back. The audience leaned in slowly, one by one, as if drawn by an invisible tide. Beth had gone perfectly still, her eyes bright with awe. Alyssa clutched her phone to her chest, too mesmerized even to lift it. For a moment, Libby’s mother wasn’t a parent in a crowd. She was a witness. When the final note rang out, it hung in the air like a held breath—suspended, fragile, almost glowing. Then the room erupted. A standing ovation burst upward like a wave—chairs scraping, hands flying, cheers building from somewhere deep and delighted. Beth gasped, half laughing, her hands coming together so fast she might have bruised her palms. Alyssa covered her mouth, her eyes wide and shimmering, whispering, “She’s incredible,” to no one in particular. But Libby’s mother didn’t clap right away. She watched her daughter bow—slow, sure, steady—not shy anymore but grounded in a way that made her look older, taller, somehow more herself than she had ever seemed before. Pride swelled through her—not sharp, not overwhelming, but warm and certain, settling deep into her bones. Because she knew. This wasn’t the end of something. It was the beginning. And someday, when the world opened its doors, Libby would walk straight through them—chin lifted, halo shining, guitar in hand—and she would take exactly what she wanted.
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