In the autumn, the trees in the family’s yard would shed their leaves, covering the ground with a collage of reds, oranges, and yellows that mesmerized the children every year. In winter, soft white snow and crystalline icicles created an icy dreamland, sparking wonder in the girls’ eyes. As the ice melted and spring showed her face, the children would play in the green grass and listen as the birds let out their unchanging songs. During hot summers,the family would often take trips down to a nearby stream to bathe and play. No matter the season, however, the five of them laughed and sang and played together.
Each morning, the man would rise with the golden sun, dress, kiss his wife and daughters goodbye, and start down the dusty road towards the blacksmith’s workshop. His strides quick and his expression merry, he would whistle his way to work. Each evening, the man would clean up the workshop, careful to put each tool back into its specific place, and head home down the same dirt path. One such evening, as the man was admiring the red sun melting into the horizon, he came to a sudden halt. There, sitting in the middle of the road was a beautiful, polished violin and its bow. Curious, the man picked them up, gently placing his fingers on the reddish maple of the violin’s neck. All of a sudden, a sudden gust of wind blew across the road, and uncontrollably, the bow in the man’s hand began to fly across the strings effortlessly. As if attached to marionette strings, his fingers played out the most exquisite melody he had ever heard. For several minutes, the man looked on in shock as his fingers moved across the instrument’s fingerboard. Then suddenly, the wind began to settle and the music abruptly stopped. The man looked around in awe, pondering what had just occurred and whose violin could possess such a wonderful power. The man saw no one and so, decidedly, he took off down the dirt path. Violin and bow in hand, he was eager to show his wife and daughters this beautiful new treasure.
“My dear, come quickly!” the man shouted as soon as he stepped into the house. “My family, gather near!” The man’s wife and children came running, the sounds of their footsteps pounded across the floor with anticipation.
“Watch now,” said the man. He picked up the violin again, bringing about another ground-shaking gust of wind, and with it, a new beautiful song. The man’s family gazed on in amazement. When the wind had died down and the music ended, the man’s wife said, “My, what a precious thing that fiddle is! Wherever did it come from?” The man recounted his finding of the violin. How the pristine, polished instrument lay unscathed on the dirt path. The man’s wife beamed, her eyes glowing with wonder and amazement. “A miracle!” she remarked in awe. But the man did not acknowledge her and his eyes remained fixed on the instrument. As the sky grew dark, and as the night went on, the man continued to pick up the violin and listen to its melodies all night.
When the sun rose the next morning, bestowing her warm light upon dawn’s rosy clouds and dew-covered fields, the man did not go to work as usual. Instead, he remained seated, fixated on the violin’s cheerful tunes. Over the passing days, the man’s wife and daughters spent all of their time and energy attempting to coax their father out of his state. For he would pause listening only to eat and sleep for a very brief time. He would not go to work or respond to any words his family said. The woman and her children grew tired of the violin’s songs and wished only to have back the husband and father that they loved so dearly back. Without the man’s income, the family grew very poor and hungry.
Weeks later, the woman approached her husband, whose eyes were fixed on the bow playing yet another divine tune in his hands. “Dearest,” she said. “You spend all day with your violin. We have lost all of our income, all of our hope. But worst of all, my sweet, we have lost you.” A tear escaped one weary eye. “Please, my love. Please come back to us.” But it was no use. The man did not take his eyes off the violin. As summer turned to fall, autumn’s colors no longer excited the children. The seasons changed, but the man’s fixation on the instrument did not. Autumn turned to winter and winter to spring, and the man still sat, listening and playing. Listening and playing.
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