Chimes

I recently toured a Presbyterian church. The music minister was there, proud to explain the history of the magnificent organ which looked out over the sanctuary, a bit god-like in its size. He told us all how the chimes were thirty feet high. He recounted how Czech men had flown all the way to Clarksville, TN in order to assemble it perfectly.
I imagined the Czechs. Did they live in a village? What had their lives resembled? Had their fathers also been builders of chimes? Did they find some peace in being able to hear the subtleties of pitch in a bell the size of a building?
Then, quite suddenly and quite like a child, I found myself saddened to know that the organ would live longer than I would.
I'm not sure what I'm trying to say here. In that instant, I saw the chimes as some sort of tower below and around which thousands of people will move. Czech men shape them, tune them with their own hands, then grow old. Someone passes through on a tour, shares a brief encounter with Palchelbel and his own mortality, then leaves to seek some notion of destiny.
Perhaps someday I will go back for a closer look. I would like to touch the keyboard, stand within the forest of bells, maybe look upward.