We found it,
My cousin and I,
While playing
In the room where
His parents slept.

A room too small
For a closet,
With treasures boxed,
Piled neatly against
A windowless wall.

I'd never seen
One close, and never
Really held one
In my hands--
Intricate beauty--

I fondled it
Tenderly taking in
Its gut and wooden
Detail--wishing I could
Take it up and play.

"But whose is it
I asked? Your sisters
Play the piano."
Unsure, he returned it,
And quickly hid it away.

But the home trip
To Utah was long,
Thinking, taking advantage,
I casually asked,
"Who plays the violin?

"We found one
In Uncle Bill and
Aunt Pauline's room.
But the girls only
Play the piano."

"Your Aunt Pauline."
Came the swift reply
From my father
Who knew her longer
Than even her husband.

"She was very talented,
A gifted musician,
And even studied
Music while at
The university."

"Why haven't I
Heard her play?"
I asked, considering
How she displayed
Her children's talent.

"As you grow older
You leave some things
Behind in order to
Accomplish things
More important."

And I thought
Of her large family,
Of her clean old house,
Of delicious meals,
Of her musical children.

And I thought
Of the meager farm
Of her nighttime work
At the spud factory,
"To make ends meet."

And I thought
Of her lovely sisters--
Rich in money,
Prestige, and value
Of the world.

And I thought
Of her musician
Father, and of dreams
He must have had
For his daughter.

And I thought
Of her love for my
Father's closest brother
And of all she
Surely left behind.

And I thought
Of the weariness
I'd seen in her eyes,
And of the contrast
In her conversation.

And ever afterward
I loved her more,
With greater understanding,
For she had sacrificed
Art for Love.

And I mourned
That music I would
Never hear on earth
But clearly sensed
In her life.

And wondered too
What I would give?
How I would live?
And could I sacrifice
My heart for such love?

02/11/2002

Posted on 02/11/2002
Copyright © 2024 Leonard M Hawkes