The Violin’s History

The Violin’s History

My little brother Paul still plays the violin,
now and then, but Dad calls it a fiddle.

It started years ago, back when Dad went to an
old woman’s house to fix her phone and
saw an old violin lying around.
Dad wanted it
and offered her money.

Maybe the lady was downsizing,
letting go of the earth one possession at a time.
Maybe the lady was a widow and childless. Maybe
she wept at the idea of being a burden to the strangers
who would soon clean out her apartment,
or maybe she needed the money.

In any case, Dad didn’t ask about the violin’s history;
He had another phone to fix.
He waved the money in front of her,
and she took it.

Paul hated it at first; Dad forced my little brother
into lessons and forced him into practicing
every night, the way that fathers
have always forced sons into jobs.

Now I am married, and have a son of my own.
Matthew’s around here somewhere, with his mother.

I want to sleep.
I want to lie on the carpet beneath the window
with the curtains drawn back and watch
the afternoon turn to evening, the evening turn
to night.