They sneered when she told them about the violin and how she played in an orchestra. She’s too stupid for anything of beauty, they thought.
She hesitated, thoroughly unsure of how to respond.
Then she rose and placed the wooden instrument under her chin and let the bow slide over the four strings.
The dark and pressing room fell silent as the notes began to pour from her fingers and dance with the currents in the air. Each one, like chimes, exultant, as if there were nothing else on earth.
Their comments, like a festering wound, foul and deep, were cleaned with each soothing secret chord. Folded arms fell to hips and flushed-anger turned into fishy white-lipped looks, as they drank in the inscrutable scene.
Everything about the music and her movement was…
*I wrote this small story for my sister and I. For all the years we spent playing the violin, getting teased at school for learning an instrument, the Saturday mornings in the Manx Youth Orchestra, and looking back all these years later. What a wonderful gift we were given, thanks to our mother.