Three Girls Playing Violin

by Ronald Moran


I know there are sadder things on a Sunday
than
listening to three pre-teen girls playing violin
at
the 11:00 service, but not for me that day,
perhaps

because both my dead parents played violin:
my father
at a more skilled level than the girls Sunday,
but my mother
would have fit right in with them, serious
and sincere,

as all violinists are, but their playing could
break
your heart, knowing how much effort these
three
girls put out, thin, like their bows, practicing
for weeks,

now playing before an audience that, out
of mercy,
did not drop their heads but did not applaud
when
it was over, looking solemn, as if they were
lined

up just before visitation, next to shake hands,
to offer
consolation to the bereaved while feeling loss,
yet not
needing to be strong or able to reach or touch
their core.

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