I try to sit tall, to look confident and to seem as though I am not as panicked as an ostrich with its head stuck in the ground.

I spot Lilly giving me a thumbs up and ridiculous smile from back stage. The one I return is only half hearted.

How poetic the school thought it would be to have the deaf girl who sits by herself at the back of the band class, the one who tries NOT to be noticed, play a solo on her harp at the summer concert in the park. How inspirational. If I could pull it off.

I should have never agreed to this. My palms are sweating and my fingers are squeezing around the frame of the harp.

My band teacher signs to me that they're going to announce me now and draw the curtains. He seems almost as nervous as me. After all, if I fail, it looks bad for him, too.

Then suddenly, the curtains pull back. Too soon, the spotlight trains on me. Too quickly, I am expected to play a tune I cannot even hear. I look out at the crowd, sitting in neat rows, soft rays of light from the setting sun at their backs. I see a few people filming even, their cameras pointed my way.

I take a deep breath, closing my eyes. Blocking out everything around me except for the strings of the harp. I can pretend their not even there. I let myself forget the people staring and the intensity of the stage lights.

I pluck the first string, letting the tremor thrum in the air, The pitch of the vibration so familiar to me.

People may think you need to hear to play music, that a musicians ear is their most important tool. And yet, I don't need any kind of noise to tell exactly what note that is. A sharp. I strum again, fingers barely needing to touch the string for the crisp waves of reverberation to spill from the instrument. My hands reach, back and forth, finding the cords, feeling the pulse each different one plays. I let myself relax, even a little, let myself join with rhythm.

Music isn't the same for me as other people, possibly, but I feel its emotion all the same. The intensity of the quick strike the sorrow of a gentle strum, the excitement of a fast pluck, the longing from a light brush.

I lean in as the speed of my song quickens, the pitch heightening. I move with the pace, unable to stop, feeling as though a part of the hymn. But it's coming to a close soon. I can feel the climax getting nearer as my fingers travel faster and faster over the strings. It's why I love this piece so much.

For however calming a harp seems, this one moves with an unexpected urgency, no room for breath. I can now count the seconds till the end of the performance, the number of strings meant to be played. Every part of me moves in time as I pull at the last few strings. Five, four, three, two, one.

I let the last vibration ring out. I rest my hands against the cords to calm them. Then there is nothing. Nothing but my heart pounding in my chest. I don't want to open my eyes, not yet. I feel like going back to where I was, with the intensity of the rhythm and the feel of the song.

But eventually, I must brave the crowd. I crack my eyes open, just a little. Then they widen. Everyone is standing. I can feel thunder of their applause on my face and in my feet, see the shock clear in their eyes, the jaws dropped open, the smiles of those greatly impressed.

Did I really do so well as to have shocked them so that this much appreciation is necessary? I let out a breath I'd been holding, and stand to take a bow. As I look out at them all, I think, 'I have made something meant only for those with hearing far more beautiful.'