When I was young, I told everyone I met that my Mother was a violin. Of course no one believed me, but it was true. Little girls can say what they want without much repercussion—the blessing and curse of a gendered age.
My Father was a reserved man. He never spoke of my Mother, but that was not surprising—he barely spoke.
Father found chatter offensive. He loudly clucked his tongue and sucked his teeth at people talking on the street, and tugged my hand to rush me past their noise. We rarely went out so as to avoid the cacophony of life that set his teeth on edge, though it wasn’t the sole reason for our isolation.
The only sounds my Father could bear were the lilting, dulcet tones of Fritz Kreisler. He loved his music. There is nothing that so soothes me like the gentle keening of Kreisler’s violin, he would say. He especially loved Massenet’s Thaïs Meditation; he listened to it every night before bed. I’m certain he always cried at the end.
As I said, my Mother was a violin. I know this because of the soft, silk-like strings that slip down my spine, and the delicate, mirrored f-notes that stand sentinel astride them. Father’s back is unremarkable, so it must be a gift from my Mother.
I have never played a note. He keeps me covered always. I think he’s ashamed. I think Mother must have played beautifully.
I wonder at her song, and what it sounded like.