Violin: A memory

The tiny arm moves clumsily
Over the noisy strings
Yet no squeaks or screeches
Are remembered

Sound is shrunk down
To a chest full of chuckles
A grandfather's pride in
His favorite

How secure to know
To feel you are the beloved
The pride and joy
The favored

Love shared through playing of
A treasured instrument
That no other can touch
The Violin

What pride was mine
To tread that sacred ground
To enter the secret club
A musician

To be like Grandpapa
the highest calling there is
The reader, the poet, the pilot
The musician

He is naught but dust
His soul has been returned
Sound and feeling all recalled
Remembrance alone

the violin still lives
In the corner of my bedroom
Beside a forgotten guitar
A reminder

Heroes are often introduced
When we are young and small
They are often abandoned
And forgotten

But some bring lasting pressure
And through our lives hold sway
He is not forgotten
or abandoned

I am now a reader
A teacher and a poet
He would be proud of me
The musician