The Violinist: A Poem of my Mother

The Violinist:

A Poem of my Mother

Loose skinned fingers

boned and spotted

hold the slender neck of the violin

amber and singing.

Her jaw is set,

chin tucked down

into the hollow 

of her shoulder.

It pains her-

her twisted neck aches

and not with the beauty of the melody.

But she plays on,

bird bright eyes

warm as chocolate

fixed on the window

ignoring the yellowed book of notes.

She is dressed in concert best

black velvet unmarred

by dust or cat fur,

and brightly colored crystal

hand strung by her loose skinned fingers

gleams at her neck.

The woodwork of the baby grand beside her

shines like the sunlight

that falls on our green and blue faded floor rug

in the center of whitewashed walls.

She is as lined

as the music staff.

Laugh and frown lines crease her,

crease her face, as soft as mohair yarn

and blushed as rose pink

as the baby blanket she held me in.

Oh, my mother,

she draws the bow

draws a breath

and watching,

I breathe too.

This is an early evening

 private practice

more ritual than necessity

a rough draft.

I love the soaring,

singing sound

the crescendo strings

that wail and waver

but don’t seem to stop

just spill into each other

just like her loose skinned fingers

vibrato

that dance on ebony

and amber.

With a flourish,

she finishes

and sighs

sets down her music,

touches her tender neck,

the sunset setting the room

and glossed brown hair

and wire rimmed glasses

on fire,

as amber-orange gleaming

as the violin,

as bright

as her smile

when she sees me,

hands folded together over my breast.

I never tire of listening,

of the music

that pours from her whole self.

But she does.

She is weary and drained

loose skinned 

as lined as the music she plays

but just as beautiful.

And so she sets away the violin

and enfolds me in her arms.