my father sat on my sister’s first fiddle left on the couch she was seven he was so mad he grabbed it by the neck smashed it to the floor where it finished dying with a doleful twang the good thing was they got her another better one we had no more violin violence till much later when sister #2 in a fit of pique broke her bow over that first sister’s head so much for music soothing the savage breast that first sister also left her valuable fiddle out in the rain she used to practice under the sky a strolling minstrel both sisters are still fiddlers still play solos trios chamber music orchestras and I who never met musical violence except within my own breast — tears dribbled to my chinrest when I was practicing the third violin part to nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen — that’s when they figured a cellist was more needed than another fiddler and I was switched — now I’m the one who seldom rosins a bow turns a peg guess I traded that passion for a pen

Jacqueline Jackson © 2009