"What will die with me when I die...."

“I don’t make many requests. I hate to be a burden. Isn’t that what the elderly always seem to say? And when they say it, their tone is so wistful, that anyone who is even half listening should know that yes, they do want to be someone’s burden, because that would mean they were not alone in the world, as their dying lights flicker in the cold draft of an imminent end.

But, I am being honest. I’ve always been independent. I dislike the thought of leaning on anyone. I’ve always just needed Viv and me. We were introduced when I was 10 years old and feeling left out, the only girl in a family of four boys. Gramma Rose sensed my discontentment and gave me Viv. She used to be hers, until rheumatoid arthritis gnarled Gramma’s hands into silence.

When Gramma placed Viv in my hands, I knew I had found the extension of me. With Viv, my soul sang out, my spirit danced among the strings, rosin wafting into the air as my finger raced up and down the fingerboard, my bow sliding effortlessly, vibrations producing beauty. Viv was polished, golden brown, with a smooth neck and a delicate scroll. She was made to nestle under my chin, resting on my left shoulder contently, the way newborns meld into their mothers.

I played Viv for decades, at family affairs, concerts, for my students, even for perfect strangers battling life’s upheavals. Together we were a force and we tried to give back a little gloriousness in an otherwise bleak world. With Viv, I was confident, interesting, the object of envy. Without Viv, I would have been a lost child in a boisterous family, just along for the ride as everyone else heartily accomplished life. Viv made me……..well, me.

I haven’t played Viv for 6 weeks. Oh I know, what’s six weeks? It isn’t really all that long. But for me it seems like an eternity. And when you’re in my situation, it really is an eternity. Viv is quiet now, anticipating my upcoming departure. She lies in an elongated violin case, burgundy velvet on the inside, dull black with gathering dust on the outside. In the pitch black of her isolation, she waits to be remembered.

How fitting, that we will both be sent off in such similar fashion.”