When my father picks up the violin,
with its long neck and curved body,
he holds it like a woman.
His eyes close and his upper lip trembles slightly.
His bow hand smooth across the strings.
His fingers dance near the pegs.
The sound is the sea or the sun
or the tears of some long lost love.
And he doesn’t look old.
When he stops playing he opens his eyes,
a soft smile crosses his face and he asks,
“How was I?”