By L.A. Carson
His posture is hunched as he labors through the park in measured shuffles, the soloist staking claim to the bench for two.
Birds audition in the trees as his gnarled hands rosin the bow. The violin rediscovers its home, just beneath his jaw, supported by his collarbone, the same spot where her head used to rest.
His eyes close. Vibrating strings resonate within him, their quivering melancholy speaking the language of his sorrowful soul, dark timbres assuaging the ache. Notes float on gossamer clouds to their diaphanous destination where she sits smiling. Birds hush as the rivulet slips down his cheek.
Poetry in motion. A violin playing the heartstrings of a damsel. Beautiful story, beautiful writing. A sad song of what couldn’t be had.
Thanks for your kind words, Rudolph
Beautiful story, Lori!
Beautiful, poetic, elegant!!??
Thank you, JD!
Thank you, Rommy!
Thank you, Rommy!
Beautifully written! I felt like I was in the park witnessing this.
Thanks for reading Pat, appreciate your comments!
Well, you made an old coot finally join X, just to follow you. Well worth it. Missed your stories. This one is a gem.