I am from notes,
The half notes and eighth notes.
I am from the bow under the top of the case.
Brown, shining wood that music sings from.
I am from the pages,
From the black, dark circles to the lines and lines of notes that carry a tune.
I am from the black protective case.
It shields me from harm and criticism.
I am from the"you can do better" and "why didn't you"
I belong in the book of life.
With stories and traditions blended within me.
I am from the matzo ball soup and the koogle my Mom makes every year.
From the feuding family to the pain of fear, the was sting my sister had to suffer.
In my gloomy dark room it sits.
The wooden shiny violin.
A memory of what I dedicate hours to, always waiting for me.
I am from my violin, brimming with memories, good and bad,
But my violin is me.
