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 away from the violin I felt a hot stinging tear roll down my cheek. I took a breath, wiped the tear, straightened my dress and began walking towards the door.
However, just before I had a chance to leave the room, I heard it, faint at first, music. The same gut wrenching music he’d played for grandma. I turned expecting to see him, instead I saw the violin standing, the bow moving over its strings by an invisible musician. My breath caught in my throat over what was happening. I carefully stepped closer expecting it to turn and run like a wild animal. I inched closer when I saw that the violin wasn’t going to stop, until I was a foot away.
Then, as if someone had tossed me the bow, it landed in my open palms. I don’t know how I knew but I could tell the violin wanted to be played. I grabbed its neck and placed the violin under my chin. I held the bow over the strings not ready to move, or maybe just too scared to. Finally, touching the bow to the strings, I let my breath go and once more, like the day grandma had been buried, the music swirled around me. Only this time I could see and hear and smell her. She smelt like cinnamon, warm and enveloping. Her voice was earthy and rich like I had remembered it as a child. She hugged me and told me she loved me. I tried to call out to her but she turned and walked away.
The music began to change and the smell of rain and coffee overtook the cinnamon. I felt cool hands wrapped around my own, moving the violin to the music. I knew without looking.
“Daddy?” I could feel hot tears bubbling up.
“I love you,” was a whisper in my ears and the music slowed to a stop.

I opened my eyes as the sunlight filled and warmed the room. I stopped and took a deep breath. I put the violin back into the case, and walked into the hall, ready to face my father’s wake.

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