It was late summer when Claire Bergen was invited to play at the International Peace Garden, south of town. The air was thick with bees and blossoms, the folding chairs were arranged in a circle near the fountain. She brought her old violin in its cracked case. Someone set out cookies and lemonade in a blue jug. A few American tourists drifted in from the other side of the border, squinting at the sign “Local Music Today.”

Claire stood in the sun, blinked and felt the old nervousness like a shadow. She did not introduce herself. Did not apologize that she felt rusty. She simply played. The first notes were uncertain but then the bow found its breath and the violin remembered something. The song had no name. It rose and settled like wind, like the breath of someone sleeping. Children stopped moving. A Mennonite couple held hands. A man who had lost someone last winter looked down and nodded to himself.

Afterward, no one clapped right away. Then did. Claire bowed. A woman came up and said, “That was beautiful. What was it called?”

Claire shrugged.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I think the place played it.”

Later, back at the farm, Claire sat on the back steps and listened to the crickets tune themselves into the dark. And when people asked her now if she was a musician, she would say,
“Sometimes.” And then she’d smile, as if she knew that was already more than enough.