Youngest put cello as his first choice, but got his second, violin. I thought, ‘Oh, dear, oh, no, mine ears will bleed, what pleasure will he find in violin, I give this two weeks tops.’
‘Look,’ he said to me when I got there after school. He held his case for me to see. ‘But I can’t open it now, I would hate for it to break.’
He said, ‘I love my teacher.’ He said, ‘This is how you hold your wrist, no not like that, like this.’ He said, ‘Mum, I love my violin.’
We rang the mister who was away from home, in Qtar I think or perhaps Oman. I held the phone. Youngest held his violin and bow, wrist straight, thumb just so.
He pulled that bow across those violin strings.
Did it screech? Did it yawl? Did it meow?
If it did, I did not notice, I had my mother ears on.
‘Did you hear me Dad? Did you hear that? I love my violin.’
The mister said to me, ‘How do you wrap these moments? Where do you keep them?’
I don’t know where the mister will keep his, but here is mine, stored beside the moment later on, as we counted down the time, youngest lad and I, until we could pull the cookies from the oven for a test. Five more minutes, three, then one.
‘Mum! Listen!’ He said to me and grabbed his violin. ‘We need dramatic sounds for this.’
He bumped his bow across the lowest-sounded strings.
I laughed and then he said, ‘I love my violin.’