My Violin

glares from its case,

daring me to play

that song I loved.

Unable to touch it-

unable to play it-

knowing my calluses have gone away

from years of infrequent playing.

Each string a reminder of what

I used to be, how I used to play.

Every medal accompanying it

hidden from sight. The soft

twang of the A string whispers

“I miss you” as it permeates the room.

“The acoustics are perfect,”

it seems to say urgently,

simply begging for the love

and attention it once received.

My violin, a long-loved

possession, now a bitter

reminder of skill and patience

that has gone with the years.