His Last Note

If you colse you eyes and listen you can hear the hollow hum of a G to the high whine of an E,
All there varing sounds come together in the complexity of that smooth instrument,
From the wide arc of it's base to the smooth twisting shell at the tip of it's neck, every inch of it screams perfection.
If you take a deep breath you can smell the friction, the hot melting sweetness of burning rosin, watch as it's dust rises from the rapid bow, sawing across the strings in an intricate pattern, last weeks polishing still evident each time the light hits it's surface.
Thin, brittle, long, white fingers move up and down, back and forth, against it's darkened finger board in rapid sucession, up and down,back and forth, creating melodies too complex for the single mind.
The entierty of the performace resting on his shoulders, metaphorically and litterally, as the hollow wood rests there, held there with his chin. His body swaying slightly to and fro from the constant movement of his arm.
Those frail fingers hold the so important addition in that difficult way that is so highly stressed, held lightly between thumb and three fingers, those three fingers stratigically placed, pinky outstreched, resting on the end, in a hold unsafe except to the trained.
The sound never alters, the melody never fails, each jump, each pause, is planned, practiced, and played in perfections.
His eyes close in concentration, listening for the lightest slip, listening , correcting before it even happens.
As the song nears it's end, his face relaxes in sweet serenity, silently congradulating himself on another display of perfection. The last note still hangs in the air,vibrating all around, held alive by his last vibrado.
His prized possession, that violin, is set between my untrained hands, as my grandfather now askes me to play.