Susan Brumel

We met in the summer of 1780, When violins wept beneath candlelight. A classical concert in Vienna’s old heart — Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Chopin — The kind of night that lives forever. She sat beside me, dressed in black velvet, Her hair like raven silk, Eyes full of autumn skies and secret songs. A Jewish rose blooming in a world too cold. When The Marriage of Figaro filled the hall, She turned to me. Our eyes met — Two souls suddenly remembering a story That hadn’t yet been written. After the last note fell like snow, We stood in silence. Then I spoke: “Susan, will you walk with me… forever?” She smiled — like moonlight bending through lace — And whispered, “Yes.” We held hands down 11th Avenue, Not running, just floating — As if love had wrapped the world in slow motion. Each streetlamp bowed as we passed, Each shadow sang. But time is a jealous clock. One morning, she was gone. No note. No breath. Only a red scarf left on our bench — And the scent of music still dancing in the wind. Some say she was a dream. Others swear she was an angel in disguise. All I know is: Since that night, every time I hear Mozart, My heart turns to 1780… To her eyes… To Susan Brumel.