The More I See You

I thought I saw you walking on the street today. I was on my way home from work, frustrated my car had been towed, forcing me to walk in the winter, and there you were in front of me, carrying your violin, your dark hair bobbing as you moved.

I called out your name but you didn’t turn around. I walked faster, trying to reach you, but you crossed the street before I could catch up. On the other side of the street, you hugged someone I didn’t know. It was then I saw your face and realized it wasn’t you.

How could I forget it couldn’t have been you?

I have this memory from the last time I saw you, from the night of your wake, of hugging your younger brother, his mouth close to my ear, mumbling about how that can’t be you in that coffin, that they found someone who looked like you, that they’re not really going to bury your violin with you. He knew I loved you, knew I’d understand how he felt. At that moment I wanted to comfort him, but all I could do was stare at your rigid fingers, stained with the mortician’s sunless tanner and placed around your violin. I told him it made sense to bury your violin with you; it was as much a part of you as your hands. I tried to comfort your brother, but all I could do was think about the Bach you never got to learn, the Brahms we’d never play together, the Irish folk songs you’d never play for me as I fall asleep.

The man I thought was you stepped into a cafe. I didn’t know what to do, so I just kept walking. It was getting dark and starting to snow, but I didn’t care.

I’m not exactly sure how I ended up in front of Wakefield Music, but there I was. I’d never been inside before, but the owner helped me find what I needed. When I entered my apartment, I closed the blinds and sat on the floor, my purchase open in front of me. I picked up the bow first, running my fingers across the smooth horse hair. Then I lifted the violin out of the case, pulling it close to my chest, trying not to crush it.

The More I See You by Rachel J. Smith is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.