The Violin Shop

A golden light

distinctly seemed

to radiate

from violins on shelves

near where I stood.

The acrid scent

of rosins cut

the dusty air,

pricked memories

of running in damp woods.

An open, plush-lined case

revealed inside

a dark red violin

(exquisite curves, a bow,

and rosin drifted on

the belly of its wood.)

I leaned so close then

that my hair

strummed it softly.

An old man's fingers

plucked up the bow,

tightened it.

He snatched the violin

and rendered "Irish

Washerwoman," switching,

halfway through,

to "Melody in F."

—"Well, girlie,

whatcha think? Y'gonna

practice? Takes

a lotta work, y'know."

He lit a cigarette

and ran his hands

with bulging veins

across the darkened varnish:

"Yeah, she's old, but that

jes' makes 'er better."

In my mind I heard

an orchestra; and something

not explainable

made me imagine him

in tie and tails

and at a podium, pointing

to the violins

(all gleaming and dark red),

urging them, with bent

arthritic fingers,

to a great crescendo.

Ink on my mother's check

was dry. Now, as we left,

the case, its grip

firm in my hand,

banged lightly, pleasantly

against my legs.

Copyright © 1988 Marian Jane Dickinson