Lonesome Spruce

I could listen to the wind, but tonight, I will hear only what I want to hear. It is not the sea, which made me cherish my childhood.  And for all the brown eyes where I left my youth, I will not remember their names. No, tonight it is the sound of the violin that calls me home.  The lamenting notes played by my father and the secret tears my mother shed when we were not looking. But we all knew how the violin touches cords in us.  Especially when my father took out his violin, on Christmas day, to say goodbye.  To say welcome.

It was not a rare violin.  But I learned that one needs not have rare moments to touch each cord in hope of times to return.  Better or worse, does not matter. When my father bent his neck and put his cheek upon the dull but rich wood of his instrument, it was the best embrace I knew.  Both violin and player become the song of mountains I never knew; and they become the river that ran in our soul.

… I have wine from old vines, tonight.  And a Christmas tree all lit up next to the window overlooking the ocean.  I do not hear the ambulances crossing the city, but know they are there.  I do not listen to the ocean trembling under the North wind. No, tonight is a silent night where only a violin plays notes of bygone times. Of my father who I left under a slab of granite on the other side of the Atlantic. It is the silent night for my mother’s secret tears that I will not be able to wipe again. I am alone, facing a Christmas tree in the dark night.  And I have wine from old vines to help me hear the old violin.

And it dances and it turns. Every strand of hair from a horse’s tail passes upon the metal cords as if fingers of a new wed upon the belly of his love. And the result is the same.  It is fear and wonder, then that emptiness suddenly filled. It is the wondering eyes of kids, on Christmas day, facing a tree full of promises.  Tonight, it is the forgotten scene of my father, slowly taking his violin out of its case, rubbing the wood surface like a newlywed who forgot the melody a tight belly reserves once in a lifetime.  It is the tuning of the cords so they can bring tears and say goodbye.  And then, it is the unforgettable moment when my father became one with the violin by reposing his cheek upon the dull belly of his violin.

So, I will drink to that tonight.  The bottle of wine from old vines will let me hear the sounds of bygone Christmases full of promises, Armenian and Gypsy melodies cried upon us by a violin which became, on Christmas day, one with my father.

And I will not hear the tremor of the ocean under the North wind nor the ambulances rushing in the city.

December 23, 2012

©Vahé Kazandjian, 2013