The Violinist

Therapy

I stare at the officer, not in disbelief, not in anger, but in wonder. Yet, more feelings bubble to the surface: How did he die? When did he die? Was he alone? Was it quick? Did he suffer? Who was it? Yet none of these was asked. I stood, staring at the officer until he stood as well and left. I stay there, mute and paralyzed. I sit on my bed and as the police leave, I sit back on my bed. It feels empty now, the house. It was not until the last few years, I began to grow to despise the man who called himself my father. I never knew why he grew to hate me, his only family and son, but I never asked or bothered to figure it out. Feeling uneasy, I stand pace the room. I feel no grief, no urge to shed tears. Yet, the same can be said for feelings of joy one may feel. I continue to search for things to do in my distress. It is not until I see my my violin on the floor that I began to have a plan. I would practice. That would take care of it. I open the case, tune, and rosin my bow. When finished, I look at my piece but decide not to play that. Instead, I search through old music I have played. I decide on a medley that I created some years ago that became too intricate and advanced for me. With a small smile, I begin to play what I called Bane. It was always difficult not due to notes count, speed, or even the key signature. No, it was difficult because I had to draw from a dark and haunted place to play. One of despair, and loneliness. I had to be come the only man in the world and play with grief. Something I am unaccustomed to. As I play let the vibrato and bowing emulate what I never could express. Low cries played upon my E string. Minor chords conveying wails of agony and melancholy. Sharp and rapid crescendos coupled with diminuendos that seemed to last an eternity echoed the gasps and streaming tears I could never show. As I play, music fills the house and my room. Not only does my bow and violin sing my pain but it takes the ache away. As if absorbing each negative and harmful emotion into the notes, transmuting it into a universal plea to be noticed. A single tear falls from my face upon the violin, as I return the tribute dedicated to the man who loved me...even when I could not....