I can remember hiding and listening
to the music stemming from my fathers hands.
Careful not to alert him; else the bow
would fall, the melody would cease.
Majestically the bow would sing on contact
as it danced upon each string. Each note
went on and on, in unison with the melody
heard in the background.
How proud I was of my father then and
even more proud of him, today.
Some time ago, the horsehairs and wood had
been carefully put away. For years now, the
music had ceased. Though silence is heard by
everyone's ear, I will always hear my
father's accompaniment to the music on the