Dear Viola

Dear viola,

Few recognize your name—

They ask if you’re a violin with high-pitched tenacity

Like Tweety Bird.

I say no because my instrument is low

Deep                   

Somber in the night.

It roars from the caves of warm sorrow.

In the darkness I run

To you

With tunes that paint a scene of solitude

And a light that never burns out.

I have known you since

The distant age of eight

And remain with you in the beginnings of adulthood.

You once held me, weeping for things

Lost to time and fate—

You have since nursed me with the

Sweet nectar of harmonious anthems.

You groan as your resonant strings

Joins their souls with mine

And we practice flying away

From anxiety and its kin.

You are that well that never runs dry—

I give you the water

To quench me.

I hear you better than the

Words of the world.

I could say it’s my Auditory Processing Disorder

That binds us.

I could tell them all that

You are my crutch to deal with

The confusion of audible language.

But that would be a half-truth

Which is a lie.

I am bound to you

And you to me

By strings as intricate as a puppeteer’s

And as strong as spider’s silk.

We are bound by sisterhood regardless of obstacles

Or a pair of travelling pants.

I give you an operator

And you give me voice.

They don’t get why we are

So sacred to one another.

They wonder why I can hear you

And not my peers.

They think I should misunderstand you

As I do others.

But I cannot mishear

Or misunderstand

What I will never fathom.