We found it,
Mike 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 held one
In my hands--
Intricate beauty--

I fingered 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
Only play the piano."
Unsure, he returned it
And quickly hid it away.

The home trip to Utah
Was always long;
Taking advantage,
I casually asked,
"Who plays the violin?

"We found one
In Uncle Bill and
Aunt Pauline's room.
Did they buy it for
One of the girls to play?"

"Your Aunt Pauline."
Came the swift reply
From my father
Who'd known her even
Longer than her husband.

"She was very talented,
A gifted musician;
Even studied it
On scholarship
At the B. Y. U."

"But 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 old clean house,
Of proper 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 values
Of the World.

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

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

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

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

And I often mourn
That music that I will never
Hear upon this earth--
But saw performed so
Clearly in her life.

And wonder,
What will I give?
How will I live?
And will I offer
My Art with such love.

02/16/2002

Posted on 02/16/2002
Copyright © 2024 Leonard M Hawkes