The German Blonde

He sat in a case for well over twelve years
Collecting dust
I had long since forgotten him, my first
As I got better, I wanted more
Stripped him of parts for my new
Better violins
Looking at him now
The patterns on his fingerboard and chinrest
Show wear, love
And a pin is still visible where the button meets the saddle
A clumsy drop, age 12
Repaired by an old carpenter
from Coalport, PA

I fell in love at first sight
But nobody seemed impressed
My unassuming fiddle, blonde, German
Kinda tinny, squeaky when I played
One hundred dollars, with bow and case, age 8
So now after all these years
I’m bored, snowed in
Seattle 2012, age 29
I take him out, replace his missing parts
String him up:

In my hands, he is familiar
As I pull my bow across the strings
His music vibrates into my ear, my mind
The feeling is aching and sweet
As if to say, welcome home, old friend
And as I play, the sound rises up beautiful
Echoing in the silent, winter morning
A cascade of sound, memory
Reverberating around me
With the rhythm of his melody, matching
The rhythm of my heart