I was seven years old when I picked up the violin for the first time. It was a small, intriguing little box that seemed to me like it carried all the secrets of the world within it. I tucked away the stray ends of my bowl haircut bangs, then lightly caressed the instrument’s strings. I leaned toward the violin and inhaled. My nose tickled softly as I inhaled the smell of well-cut mahogany wood. I then shifted my gaze to the long rod lying next to the violin and examined the hair attached to it. They said it was supposed to be horse hair, but that puzzled me. I imagined a sleek, ivory pony standing a bed full of daisies, its mane billowing in the wind, pure white against the blue sky. And yet I shuddered picturing someone cutting off its hair just to make this bow. Just to be repurposed into something else. I placed the horse hair bow onto the string and pulled. A scratchy, timid note came out. I smiled sheepishly.
“You like it, don’t you?” My mother came up behind me and patted my shoulder, proud and satisfied. She’d bought me the violin.
But I didn’t reply. I just kept smiling. She nodded silently and walked away, her footsteps echoing throughout the empty house. It mesmerized me that each string sounded a bit different than the last. I pressed the bow against the strings firmly. So firmly, in fact, that I was touching all the strings with the said horse hair. And then, I pulled. Hard. At once, a questionable ear-wrenching noise filled the room, but was quickly cut-off because I started laughing hysterically.
My cheeks were aching from smiling when my mom came back. She was holding a silver CD, and I slowly stopped laughing to stare, first at her, then at the CD player. I watched her slowly slip the disc in. She turned the knob, and I’m not sure I remember what happened after that. It was as if someone had stolen my breath. I was silent; listening. The phrasing and the harmonies melted together the same way chocolate melts on your tongue; smoothly, ever pleasantly.
Then a voice. A singular melody, a soft yet declaring little sound. It was a violinist. A solo violinist, whose notes blended effortlessly with the rest of the orchestra. The gracefulness of each note combined with every commanding section sent a shiver down my spine.
That’s when it hit me. This was what I was meant to do. I was going to be a solo violinist one day. I was going to play with the Philharmonic Orchestra. I was going to play the music that broadcasts to the entire world through the radio.
fine
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