even as I lift it like a wounded bird off pavement,
out of its case and against my chest
as my heart cradles it close and my hand presses it away.
I don't let it in yet. I can't. Not yet. Maybe never.
The viola sits atop my knee and waits for me.
And they know - I know they know - how long it's been
From my own lips, lips that once would hum along
As younger fingers danced up and down that ebony stage...
It's nothing to me now, but it's a gift, so it's everything.
...they'd dance for hours, because I loved it.
I grew around it and it grew through me,
This need I could never share without seeming crazy
And maybe I was.
I loved the feel of it, the sound of it,
like a thunderstorm waiting just for me,
in the palm of my hand
like the one turning the viola atop my knee.
The strings face outward. When the time comes to play,
She will turn a graceful arc until the cool of her rib
rests against my shoulder like a lover's temple,
her eyes turned up to wait for me
to realize just how long it's been.
I adore giving gifts because I adore revenge. I deeply regret every time I've been ungrateful for gifts I didn't know how to accept. I deeper regret each time I've failed to pay a gift-giver back in kind.