Friday, December 28, 2012

Fact or fiction: Violinist in the cemetery

She went to his grave every day. It was like breathing. Automatic. Something she did without thinking. It had become routine. Not in a bad way. Not like when she recited the confession in church, saying the words but not really paying attention to what they meant. But routine in the way that if she didn’t come, her day wouldn't feel quite right. Like drinking a gin and tonic and instead of her usual Tanqueray No. 10 she was stuck with Seagram’s Extra Dry, a piss poor substitute. She could taste the difference, even with extra lime.

Once, she tried not coming. She almost got through the whole day, too. But when she closed her eyes that night, she saw his face. He was beckoning her. Next thing she knew she was on her knees in front of the small granite grave, her nightgown bunched up around her.

She didn’t know she had company. Didn’t see him staring from a few graves away. Normally, he came when the day was closing its eyes. But today was an exception. Today, he was there before the morning could finish its yawn. He had to be at the airport by 8.

He watched her fingers dance across her chest, making the sign of the cross. Her flaming red hair licked her back like a rolling fire. He wondered if she had a temper. Isn’t that what they said about redheads? She didn’t look like the temper type.  She looked more delicate. Maybe it was her pale skin or that a violin case lay open beside her.

It was the music that first drew him near. Her sweet notes drifted like snowflakes and he felt like a boy, wanting to capture them on his tongue and savor forever. When he followed the musical trail, he found her playing a lullaby. Sweet and flowing with a tinge of sadness.

Fact or fiction? Read on to find out.

This is fiction. 

This scene came to me this morning in the shower (Yeah, I know, of all places. And nothing to write with!).

I imagined two people in a cemetery meeting each other for the first time. They are sad and lonely and in a place shrouded by ghosts of the past. They are behind curtains too heavy to lift, but together maybe they will find a way out of their darkness.

I chose the violin because it’s one of the instruments I played growing up.

I’m not sure where this piece will take me, but I can’t get the image of the young woman playing the violin at the grave out of my mind.

So, I will start 2013 working on this piece and see where it goes. Wish me luck. Do you like what I have so far? 

Other fact or fiction posts:

A boy and a tattoo
Living a lie 
A cancer diagnosis
The Broken Nail

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