“You know”, I say, as I tuck my fingers between hers,
“My teacher put balls of crumpled brown paper
Between mine.” She grimaces, part ai-ai part
Ew, but her fingers figure out what to do.
She fans them out, positions the bow,
And launches into the famous Titanic ballad. Slow,
Painful, amid much cracking and clattering,
I hear the music emerge. That is how I know
It goes on. This feel of the wood singing
Under the fingertips, forgotten so long
The urgings of the kid bringing the old
Joy surging back into the veins. The art
Strains the wrist, but the heart
Has little respect for middle age’s aches
And pains. And goes on.