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How does he know about the violin?
How does he know what music really means to me?
And how does he always seem to get me? Know me?
He loves me, but he can’t stand to look at me? Be with me?
At first, I just stand there, in a puddle of my own tears with my thoughts scattered across the kitchen. But before I even know what I’m doing, I pick up my cell phone and call the one person I need right now.
And an hour later, my dad is opening the front door, and I kind of push myself into his arms and hug him tightly.
“Indigo?” he asks, but he doesn’t let me go. “What’s going on, honey?”
I don’t say anything at first. I can’t.
I savor the comfort of home. Of my dad’s hug.
One minute turns to two and two turns to three, and when the urge to sob has been swallowed down enough for words to be a possibility, I inhale a deep breath. “Do you still have my violin?” I ask on a whisper. “Or did you end up getting rid of it?”
“Of course, I have it, Indigo.”
We’re in my dad’s music room, and it hasn’t changed one bit since I was last in here. The walls are still covered with music memorabilia and instruments, and stacks of sheet music litter the corners and fill the shelves.
It’s both a vision of peace and turmoil to my eyes.
I used to spend hours upon hours in this room. Learning how to play every instrument I could get my fingers on. But it didn’t take long for me to realize the violin was what I loved most.
“What do you want to play?” my dad asks quietly from his spot behind the piano.
I don’t even have to think about it.
“The Four Seasons,” I whisper.
“The whole concerto?”
I nod.
I know I’m going to be rusty as hell and both my dad and I will miss a bunch of notes, but it doesn’t matter. It was the last composition I played. For a crowd of thousands. And in order to do this right, in order to play the violin again, it needs to be this, it needs to be Vivaldi.
Somehow, my dad manages to find the sheet music beneath the stacks and sits down at the piano.
And I pick up the violin. Its slender strings caress my fingers, and I tenderly trace its curves under my palm and inhale a deep and shaky breath. It’s been so long since I’ve held it in my fingertips. So long since I’ve felt its weight in my hands.
“You ready?” he asks and I nod.
I adjust the violin beneath my chin, and I grip the bow in my hand.
My dad waits for my cue.
With a deep, nervous inhale, I pull oxygen into my lungs, and then I strum the bow across the strings and begin.
Not even two beats later, the piano accompanies me.
Instantly, there is something about the vibrations that feel so heavenly, as if they are liquid energy seeping right through my skin. There’s something about the way the violin sings in my hands that makes my heart race. And God, it’s both harrowing and euphoric the way it encompasses my body.
It’s heaven and hell all at once.
It’s everything I’ve dreamed of, everything I love, but it’s painful, releasing all of the tragic memories I’ve been trying to avoid.
But I keep playing.
First, Spring.
Then, Summer.
Then, Autumn.
By the time we fall into winter, I’m lost to the harrowing notes. The haunting rhythm. Liquid emotion spills from my eyes, and I watch the drops fall onto the hollow body of my violin.
But I keep playing.
Music—this violin in my hands—it is the rhythm of my soul. It flows through my veins and swirls in my head. To me, music is life and life is music. It’s in everything I see. It’s in the air I breathe. It’s in my DNA. And the violin is my instrument, and I never should have gone a day without playing it.
I shouldn’t have let over four years pass by without picking it up in my hands.
When we reach the end, I sob. Not out of sadness or fear or uncertainty, just…this cathartic kind of sob that feels like it’s been buried inside of my bones for a decade.
My dad doesn’t say anything.
He gets up from the piano and pulls me into a tight hug and lets me cry for a long moment.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and I nod into his shoulder.
“I’m incredibly sad and incredibly happy at the same time. It’s overwhelming.”
“Hearing you play again, seeing you play again,” he says and inhales an unsteady breath. “It filled my heart, Indigo. It was…beautiful.” He hugs me tighter. “Whatever brought you back to this, back to the violin, don’t let it go.”
Indy
I hardly remember the walk back from my parents’ house.
