Ribbons fluttered in slow motion, colours flashing and winking in the jarring neon. Wrapping paper glinted in its shredded shame. Forgotten breath was slowly exhaled… a sigh of almost orgasmic quality. Inside lay a mafioso's make-believe; a violin.
It tugged at the heart strings, it made me dance, it made me laugh in delirious joy, it strummed my life, my dreams, my joys and my hope. It's chorded melody made my heart dance, my eyes light up and my breath catch in the throat. The violin was my symbol… of my struggle, my passion, my youth, my creativity and… and my future.
And then… and then there was another gift. Left behind by an unknown would-be Sicilian. Another beauty… another bringer of music in my heart. Another violin. I played as an addict… plaintive, soothing notes floated from my fingers. And as the tears dripped in sync from my eyes, my heart grew lighter with the notes of pain that I played. And my new violin serenaded all the heart-ache out of me that life had sown deep.
I played both my violins. One was classic, beauty itself. The other was a relief, my balm. I needed both to balance my joy and my pain. I have both.
But all violins are not the same. The second violin is always called a fiddle.