His Violin
His Violin I heard music in the room as I entered, but all that was there was a violin, lying on its back on the bare floorboards. It took me a moment to realize it wasn’t in its case. I rushed to it and picked it up gently. As my hand felt the smooth wood, a wash of memories flooded over me. The first time I really heard him playing was the afternoon of my grandmother’s funeral. I’d heard him play many times before, but this this was different. It was slow and quiet; a musical eulogium. I remember the music swirl like a gentle breeze around me, and with his musical decrescendos I felt it grow cold and lonely, despite me standing in the hall watching him. He moved his bow with what looked like agonizing sorrow, it hurt to watch him, to know how alone, cold, and heart-broken he felt. I let my memories go and stood there careful not to take my eyes off the violin. I put it back in the case — the click of the latch was deafening. It hurt to look at, I know because when I turned