Strings

I used to be able to play the violin.

I remember the excitement I’d feel when I rested my chin against the bottom,

When I lifted the bow and started sawing it back and forth, down and up, fast and slow.

Everyone at my school was taught it, but no one else seemed to love it like I did.

Music class was the one place I could play, the one place where that skill could be honed.

But then I moved away.

No more classes, no more practice.

My great grandmother gave me an old violin of hers, having been a musician herself, but it was broken and out of tune, little more than a relic of the music it once was able to make.

I was helpless as the skill faded from my memory, as the ability to read notes and memorize movements vanished.

I listen to classical music all the time, and when a violin starts to play, I picture myself with bow in hand, expertly performing the beautiful piece that floods my ears,

But then I open my eyes and there’s no instrument in sight,

Only the grief of losing a skill I no longer possess.