I caress the old instrument, tracing the wooden pattern I know so well. I pluck a string and listen to the the low vibration. I let my tears fall.

I wish I knew how to play.

I wish I could pick up my violin’s bow and play.

My family had always been poor, but even so this violin had been passed down, generation to generation with father teaching son to play. But my father never had the chance to teach me. So instead I pluck, without any skill.

But I still hear a symphony of sound as the one note fills my dark room with light.

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