Tony Dipaulo eases himself into a chair. The piano keys beneath his fingers humbly await his command. A single sheet of paper guides him.

The show begins.

Tony picks away at the keys. He takes in the rhythm, keeping time through the bobbing of his head. His eyes close.

His song flows through the building in waves. An aura of resonance and wholeness is left in its wake. Everything comes together.

This is his sanctuary.

Once just an item on a bucket list. Now a forged skill that brings peace to the waiter.

He does not play for himself alone. He plays for his audience. His family.

At gatherings, he will separate himself, if only just for a while.

Separate himself from the chaos of a dozen voices at once. Separate himself from three small children, loud and wild. Separate himself from the noise of life. Separate himself, and just play.

Alone, he achieves plenty in this hobby. Playing is a reward in itself. Dipaulo composes as well, pecking at keys to create new music.

“Writing music is even better. It gives you a sense of accomplishment.”

Dipaulo ascends beyond the rest when he plays. Soars above the others when he performs.

And, for even just a second, the audience gets a glimpse of his ascension.

A glimpse of his wings.

Dipaulo’s performance hits its climax.

He descends from his sanctuary. His soul’s wavelength is almost spent. His show comes to its end.

He folds up his wings, allowing them to rest. He will need them again soon enough.

His eyes drift away from the single sheet of paper that had lead him to his  ascent, and his inevitable descent from the heavens.

He places his hands on his knees, using them to help in his rise from the chair.

The show ends.