The Violin

14/07/2020 – Poem a Day Compilation



The stairs creaked underfoot,

Their tread almost pristine from lack of use.



I didn’t know what was up there,

No one ever took the time to explain

And now I was the only one left with the keys.



At the top of the flight, on the landing,

Little plumes of dust rose from the carpet

With every step I took towards the door.



The keys were cold in my hand

But my palm was sweating in anticipation,

Maybe in fear, as well.



I don’t know exactly what I felt.



It’s a bit of a blur if I’m perfectly honest.



I put the big key in a lock

That looked original to the house,

Chunky mid-1800s, I thought.



The key jiggled, rattled, not wanting to turn

Until it suddenly found its home

And sprung around in my hand with a click.



The lock opening was just the start,

The door wedged shut over the years

By the expansion and contraction of its boards

From season to season,

An era of dirt and other detritus built up

To make an almost perfect seal.



No amount of pulling and pushing would help

To free the stubborn door from its frame

So, I lined up my shoulder with the door

Braced against the inevitable impact

And threw my body weight forward.



It felt like the whole house shook

But the door remained closed.



I braced again, this time hitting it harder.

I could hear the screech of the door,

The wood being forced apart

After so many years of happy coexistence.



It took several more hits before it swung open

And I found myself staggering forward

Into the darkness of the attic room,

The air thick enough to taste,

The smell wanting to make me heave.



I fumbled for the light switch on the wall

As my eyes somewhat adjusted to the dark

But there was no switch to be found.



I could make out vague shapes,

Boxes, maybe, piled haphazardly,

And a boarded-up window

Filled remains of a thousand cockroaches.



There in the dark,

My eyes now adjusted as best they could,

I saw a string hanging from the ceiling

And I hoped it was for the single globe

I could just make out on the ceiling

And not part of a monstrous web

With an enormous spider at the top

Waiting to devour me for lunch.



I flicked the cord gingerly and,

Not finding myself become a meal

For a hungry arachnid or something worse,

I tugged on its grime encrusted end.



The light flickered to life,

Casting a dull yellowish glow

So different from the bright white

Of the LED globes downstairs.



I looked at the boxes, layered with dust

And who knows what else,

Thinking that I should have put the gloves on

At least twenty minutes before this point

But better late than never, as they say.



Slipping on the gloves, My hands swimming

Despite them being the smallest size available,

I tried to read the writing on the boxes.



I scraped the muck away from the carboard

Revealing delicate printing –

Oma’s Music –

And took a deep breath.



It wasn’t my Oma, but hers.



Die Groβmutter meiner Groβmutter.



I opened the box and, there,

Neatly stacked inside,

Were bundles and bundles of papers

Filled with the music of a lifetime,

For piano, for violin, for clarinet.



The piano she’d played these on

Stood proudly downstairs,

The focal feature of the drawing room,

Grand and kept perfectly in tune.



The clarinet had been broken in a move

Long before my time,

Even before my mother’s time,

Reduced to a memory shared

From generation to generation.



But the violin, locked away for so long,

Sat in another box, still inside its case,

Longing for someone to love it

And to play it, just one more time.



It would have to be restrung,

Its wooden body polished

To restore the stunning handiwork

Of a young Matthias Klotz,

His instrument now so far from home,

But once again loved as it had been

At the hands of a beautiful lady

From the forests surrounding Mittenwald.



I dared not touch it then,

My gloved hands caked in dirt

And shaking from the find I had hoped for

But dared not expect,

Lest I come away sadly disappointed

By what I had found.



A third box, more reminiscent of a chest,

Groaned as I lifted the lid,

The ghosts of more than a hundred years

Spilling free from their crypt,

Leaving only the photographs,

Yellowed and curling at the edges,

Of family, of friends,

Of places and events on dreamed of

For the likes of me.



A child posed at the piano,

Her dolls laying casually atop,

Her fingers perched on the keys.



A teen at her first ball,

Glowing radiantly in the throng,

Her gowns train spilling away from her.



A family portrait of stuffy men in suits

And women in far too many layers

For that time of year.



A couple just married,

Their love and devotion

Shining through the years.



A mother and her brood,

She looking too young to have so many,

Unaged by the trials and tribulations.



There was life in those boxes,

Love and heartache, fear and triumph,

A never-ending story of joy and sacrifice

Never forgotten, but sometimes pushed aside

As the day to day struggles took over

The caretakers of those memories.



Now I was that caretaker,

Duty bound to bring new life to old stories,

And to treasure that which remained

Of a woman I never met,

But to whom I belonged

And to whom my children belonged

And whose blood flowed through our veins

As a living reminder to all she was

And all that we could be.