For the first time this year, the cold has frosted over the windows
of my little campus suite. I live with three people my own age here,
none of whom I know very well or see very often.
One of my them plays the violin. I've seen its case, slung under her
arm or resting against the storage room wall, but I've never seen the
violin, or heard her play it. Music majors, she tells me, have practice
like I do lecture, have recitals like I do exams.
She wanted, once, to read a poem I'd written. Easy to accomodate, and
impersonal: in this building, take this paper. To ask somebody to
accept your silence and appreciation in return for their time and their
gift, though, feels too intimate.
Of violinists I have known, she is the second, after a Sarah in high
school who'd perform during morning services. I'd listen for her
instrument beneath the piano and the choir, my hymnal left unopened as
I caught and held its sounds. I remember, too, our graduation
ceremony, when she played alone. Beneath the stage lamps, the sequins of her red dress threw light against her noise.