RESOLUTION

In my years of music lessons, one of the most important things I learned about was the process of resolution. In technical terms, it is the movement from harmonic dissonance to consonance, the change from uncomfortable harmony to something more stable. In human terms… it is simply the feeling of returning home. I came to learn this less factual but infinitely truer definition the summer I went to arts camp, but it wasn’t a music lesson or a practice session that brought on my realization. It was a cliche, a slow moment of rose tinted teenage emotion that allowed me to understand that a little resolution could be a personal utopia.
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We were at the lake. Initially, I had been violently opposed to leaving the warmth of the cabin (the summer camp made a strange juxtaposition of bourgie arts kids and ramshackle log huts in the freezing woods), but all it took to sway me was for my friend Quinn to mention the presence of a bonfire, and more significantly, s’mores, on that lakefront. I did like marshmallows. And I definitely liked Quinn.

She and I had been fast friends, bonding over a mutual love for Frank Ocean and a mutual dislike of well, other people. I liked her acerbic wit and easy confidence, and I guess she liked that I could keep up with her. We spent those weeks of summer wandering the campus, singing 90s hits in empty practice rooms, and cramming two to a hammock so we could see the sky at night. As the weeks went on we got close, as they got colder we started cuddled in her bunk at night, and now when she slung her arm around my shoulder I felt warmth pool in the pit of my stomach. During “cabin talk” we toed the line between banter and flirting (making everyone else vaguely uncomfortable) and now she kissed me on the cheek before she gave me a coffee outside the cafeteria, and things felt too perilously perfect to do anything real. But there is a tension in not knowing where you are with someone.

The sky that day was bleeding streaks of orange and pink, the sun low in the sky, and the water clear–all things Quinn had commented on as she she pulled out her camera and began to snap a slew of photos. I sprawled out on a long bench, pulling apart my s’more lazily while she darted around. The tiny speakers on my phone poured out an old Frank Sinatra song. I closed my eyes for a minute, focusing in on the bloom of the brass mixing with the litany of soft snaps from Quinn’s camera. Drowsiness began to set in when there was a click, loud and mechanical near my face. I jolted upright and opened my eyes to the aperture of her camera pointed my way.

“You looked cute.” She explained, before sliding onto the bench. I felt that familiar twist in my gut and a sudden inexplicable difficulty in forming words. I didn’t say anything, and the moment teetered on awkward. Neither of us wanted to act like there was a reason behind my suddenly speechlessness. But consonance was always preceded by dissonance–I took a breath, leaned in and put my head on my shoulder. This wasn’t a deceptive cadence, it wasn’t a tritone sub, it wasn’t even creative; it was a simple harmony, but it felt right. She started to hum along to the Sinatra song, and I glanced up.

“I didn’t know you liked jazz.” I said.

“I like this.” She replied, turning her head to look at me, and suddenly I knew what this was. The sun had begun to dip below the horizon, but it scattered brilliant red rays across the lake, and it was getting cold out but Quinn was close and she smelled like coffee. Suddenly the tension from those previous days melted away, and something about that moment felt like home. It felt like utopia – it felt like resolution.

By Stephanie C., 17, Illinois