The cello

The cello was 274 years old. I had never held anything that had lived that long. The sound that came when its guardian played was robust, but I couldn't help thinking how easily the object could be damaged. If it was damaged, though, the music itself would not be, for it could be played, and made to live again, from another instrument. Maybe it would not be so venerable, but the music would still come. It's not the same for humans. When the body is done and gone, the music of that person is gone also; children and work may be left behind as memories, but no new tunes are created ever again.