Private Symphony

Brian Williams chooses the violet textured silk cravat sprinkled with small white dots.  She wakened every morning at exactly eight even though there really was no reason to.  No alarm urged her out of bed; no employment awaited her.  She didn't even have a dog or cat awaiting a rush of kibble into its dish.  But she liked to be part of a routine, a cog in a bustling movement of Life.  She pulled on her robe and slid her feet into slippers.  In the bathroom, once she accomplished her own few necessaries, she filled a small watering can.  She walked back out into her room and greeted her charges, a lush row of African violets, velvety and beautiful.  "Good Morning, lovelies," she crooned to each purple and white-throated bloom.  After a careful watering, she gently daubed away any beads of water from every solitary leaf on which they stood.  She pressed a button on the CD player, and out flowed Rachmaninoff, softly, as she conducted, perfectly.