After practicing my scales, i stared down at my violin. I had time, i told myself, and i did, at least for now. I sat down on the floor, wiping it clean, slowly, bit by bit. I looked at the scroll and touched it like i've never touched it before. It was so smooth. When i lean the tip of the violin against my face, the scroll fit perfectly with the contours of my nose. Just like how the crossings of my hands do, when they are clasped together to pray. It seems to have been made for me.

Its woody scent lingers in the air. Between the bridge and the fingerboard, it was white from rosin. I gingerly wiped it away, bit by bit, feeling the sound of the white dust rubbing lightly against the board. It echoed. I let myself get lost in this unusual yet calming rhythm, not daring to break it. I slide a finger along the purfling. It was smooth, but at parts, it needs a little polishing. I didn't have polish, my teacher has it though. I wiped the rosin out of the strings and body, it looked so beautiful - clean and woody. I finger my way up to the tuning pegs and peg box by its smoothed ribs. I started plucking at the strings, as if i haven't had enough of the two hour practice. It seemed like an unlikely day to feel so calm.

I nested it between my crossed legs, it faced me. I plucked away slowly to the pieces that i'd known by heart since the age of five or six, knowing the exact fingerings. My hands slide so naturally, i didn't dare breathe, in case it cut the memory and i'd forget how to play. All too unlikely, but still glaringly possible. I know i'd never get to Julliard or become a musician, i was never up to mark for anything big anyway, just someone who loved it, but couldn't make it. I remembered painfully, the days when i'd wanted to rush through learning the pieces and finally be able to play it whole without mistakes, without stopping, putting my feelings into it, feeling the sounds rounded and the tip of my fingers numb. I've had a few favourite pieces along these nine years. Some i can no longer recall. My eyes fell on the bow. I blinked awake, and i realised what i was doing.

Looking at the clock, i realised how long i'd taken. A little ashamed of myself for being so kiddish, i gently placed my violin and bow back in its case. I'd play it again the day after tomorrow, i'd told myself. So i'll play it today, my day after tomorrow.

After practicing my scales, i stared down at my violin. I had time, i told myself, and i did, at least for now. I sat down on the floor, wiping it clean, slowly, bit by bit. I looked at the scroll and touched it like i've never touched it before. It was so smooth. When i lean the tip of the violin against my face, the scroll fit perfectly with the contours of my nose. Just like how the crossings of my hands do, when they are clasped together to pray. It seems to have been made for me.

Its woody scent lingers in the air. Between the bridge and the fingerboard, it was white from rosin. I gingerly wiped it away, bit by bit, feeling the sound of the white dust rubbing lightly against the board. It echoed. I let myself get lost in this unusual yet calming rhythm, not daring to break it. I slide a finger along the purfling. It was smooth, but at parts, it needs a little polishing. I didn't have polish, my teacher has it though. I wiped the rosin out of the strings and body, it looked so beautiful - clean and woody. I finger my way up to the tuning pegs and peg box by its smoothed ribs. I started plucking at the strings, as if i haven't had enough of the two hour practice. It seemed like an unlikely day to feel so calm.

I nested it between my crossed legs, it faced me. I plucked away slowly to the pieces that i'd known by heart since the age of five or six, knowing the exact fingerings. My hands slide so naturally, i didn't dare breathe, in case it cut the memory and i'd forget how to play. All too unlikely, but still glaringly possible. I know i'd never get to Julliard or become a musician, i was never up to mark for anything big anyway, just someone who loved it, but couldn't make it. I remembered painfully, the days when i'd wanted to rush through learning the pieces and finally be able to play it whole without mistakes, without stopping, putting my feelings into it, feeling the sounds rounded and the tip of my fingers numb. I've had a few favourite pieces along these nine years. Some i can no longer recall. My eyes fell on the bow. I blinked awake, and i realised what i was doing.

Looking at the clock, i realised how long i'd taken. A little ashamed of myself for being so kiddish, i gently placed my violin and bow back in its case. I'd play it again the day after tomorrow, i'd told myself. So i'll play it today, my day after tomorrow.