The Fiddler

Just play me like you know so well, the one you shoved

in the benighted depth of your old hall closet years ago; take it out and play me.

Wipe it down, scatter it's dust all around the room. You've

got some polish don't you? Make it feel beautiful. Tune

it, make it sound exactly like you want it to. Touch the

neck, run your fingers down the instrument slowly brushing

the strings seemingly by mistake. And just the way 

you know how, hustle it to believe you are out of practice.

Play a few notes of rummage at

first, then just little by little, get better -- smoother.

Before you know it, the way rod glides against the

body is with remarkable ease, conducting the best song I've

ever heard. Such poetry should be shared with the

world but you just play for me, because...

because of us. A beautiful climax of a solo melts 

my fears, makes my heart race, a smile I've 

never smiled before.

The denouement is slowly fading as I see a future, a 

forever, a man, the best fiddler I've ever heard. You

lower your rod, we are both silent. Finally, after so

long, such magic is renewed. You stare

at me, I smile. Without losing our locked eyes, 

and your expression frozen to what could only

be described as anger, deeply embedded despair, and an 

indescribable tiredness, you discard the fiddle. Carelessly you 

toss it, retreat it into the press with heavy force, so heavily

the door shuts behind you.

You silently leave, never to return;

I am at a loss for words.