The Borrowed Voice

               


          From the sensuous beauty of the violin:
the flaring hips, the swelling belly,
the flaming patterns in the wood,
the cells of the wood where live
all the sounds, the songs,
the voices, the vibrations,
the hollow place of air
set free through the F holes,
the set feet of the bridge,
the sound post between maple and spruce,
and the strings pulled
by hair of a Siberian pony's tail,
the Brazilian pernambuco bow,
the tension just enough for strength,
the flex just before the breaking point,
        Comes a voice
        almost human,
more perfect than human.
How can I say goodbye to you?

      When you are a human,
when your vocal cords stiffen,
your high notes crack,
your age declares itself.
My mother had to let it go,
her voice, her self;
The hopeful young soprano,
the joyful virtuosity,
mortal.

   The brass player's brilliance and bravura,
the woodwind's facility,
the dance and ripple of notes,
the song sparrows and finches of instruments;
will all slow, stumble, be silenced.

  Shall I hang on,
stiff and cramped,
pushing through the pain?

  But, each day, some note rings clear,
something still pulls out the song,
the old seduction from
before I can remember.

  The violin remembers,
remembers all its lives,
all the hands, all the bows,
everyone who has borrowed its body,
everyone who set free its voice.

Farewell to Ralphie

                When the family had all gone, daughters and spouses to Vermont, Bob to play his shows, I went upstairs to the guest bedroom. All the bedding had been neatly stacked, quilts and blankets, pillows, and the airbed was still inflated. All I could think was: what a smorgasbord of delights for Ralph, our cat. Our cat, who had suddenly fallen ill with pancreatitis a few days before Christmas, and had to be euthanized on Christmas morning when complications arose.
              I know that the loss of a pet is nothing, compared to a human family member dying, which is on a whole other plane. But there is a purity and simplicity to the love we feel toward these animals who share our everyday lives and are so dependent on us. Ralphie was with Bob and me for twelve and a half years, and we had adopted him as a six-week-old kitten.
              I remember that he was so tiny that I was afraid he would get lost in some hole in a closet in our old house. He had huge ears and a very loud voice when he demanded his food. He lived up to his namesake, Ralph Kramden, except he had a very happy temperament. All he wanted was a cozy place to squeeze up to you, and plenty of food. He slept on the camel saddle in Bob's practice room and never moved while Bob played the trombone. Yet he could hear the crinkle of a treat bag two floors away.
              For the first few years of his life, I was working in New York much of the time and only saw him and Alice when I came down to Philadelphia. But in 2012 that job ended, and I was much less busy as a freelance musician. He became a companion to me as I sat and read, a warm presence in cold winters in the leaky, old house. Wherever his people were, he wanted to be.
             A few years ago he had a couple of nights in an emergency vet hospital with a urinary blockage that would have killed him. I realized how much his company meant to me. I was at a time of major change in my life. My working life was contracting, and, finally, I had to have two shoulder surgeries over three years. I was at home recovering, mostly alone, and with no idea what came next.
           There on the couch was Ralphie. He would roll over to have his belly petted, do the upside-down-head flirting, purr hugely. He made a room welcoming, made our house a home.
          Now I tear up at the sight of an old couch cushion he used for "mama claws" covered with yellow fur.
         When my mother died in 2012, I finally cried when my brother played a recording of her singing a DaFalla Spanish song. The clear, joyful young voice of my mother finally cut through my complicated feelings and allowed pure grief.
         When I cry about Ralphie, I am also crying for my lost career as a violinist, for my parents, for loneliness. Who will so easily offer up comfort as this creature?

         My daughters, Bob, and I had a  ceremony of goodbye to him by video conference call. Bob played, and we sang a  little poem I had written a while ago to the familiar tune:

         Ralphie's Ode To Joy

              Bites of chicken,
              Lap to sit in,
Lying on my back in sun,

          Unmade beds
         with rumpled blankets,
Any cloth left on the floor.

  When new people sit in the sofa,
How I love to snuggle up.

       All my life is simple pleasure,
food and love and comfy things.