the violin

the case is the colour of a wet street. inside, on red felt, a small instrument waits the way small instruments wait. the body has the figure of a face you almost remember; the f-holes give it a quiet look.

three of four strings are tuned. the d, which always goes first, is slack and dull and the colour of old hair. a cake of rosin sits in its compartment. the bow's frog is loose; the hair has thinned at one end. there is a chinrest, oiled. the chin that knew it is no longer here.

it was a child's for a while, then an aunt's. the aunt played out of tune on purpose because she liked the way the room sounded slightly wrong. closed, the case is a small dark animal that does not wake unless you wake it. opens with a thin sound between a sigh and a creak.

field-note: the inside of the lid smells of varnish, dust, and 1968.

humming · chime · the tuning fork · a score