I watched her fingers gently touch the note on the fingerboard, as they moved up and down, like spiders crawling up a wall, graceful and serene. How I wished I could play the cello as well as her. Her face, normally wrinkled and worn, like my old leather boots, came alive with joy and youth as she bowed the beautiful instrument. The cello seemed to laugh as she hooked her bow strokes together. Out of her petit, strong mouth she let out a laugh, which blended together with the cello's joyus noise. The cellos low notes where warm and full, reminding me of cookies fresh from the oven. They warmed you from the inside out. The high notes where sad and mournful, almost caljoing. Slowly, beautifully, the piece slowed and softned, and Mrs.Crawford held the last note, letting the gorgues sound ring around the large, airy room before taking her bow off the string. She sat up from the chair, and suddenly it was like I was seeing Mrs.Crawford as a 16 year old again. Her skin was creamy and flawless, her compleaxion rosy, and her bright blue eyes glowing. She was as beautiful as the sound she had just produced. I, along with the rest of the audience stood and clapped long and hard for Mrs.Crawford. I felt warm and light, and I could still hear the concerto in my head. One thing was for sure. No one could play the cello quite like Mrs.Crawford.