Strings of Solace

The moon was high over her, seemingly taunting her. It illuminated the entire sky in a way that made it almost seem human, like it had emotions and feelings and memories, and she wondered if the moon was sad or happy or angry or indifferent.

She sat on a park bench; it was approaching midnight and there were few stars in the sky that could be seen through the light pollution of the city. Beside her sat her violin in a black case. The trees seemed to shake and come to a rest as if taking their seats. She looked around and saw nobody. She was in a corner of the park, one that drew fear in her. But that was the challenging emotion she needed. There were no lights, only a small bench that overlooked the small pond.

When she was sure she was alone, she unclasped the locks of her violin case and pulled the bow and violin from its home. Her bottom lip quivered, and she felt tears well up in her eyes as she looked up at the moon expecting some answer. She started to play, slow and somber. As she played, she had to bite her bottom lip to prevent herself from crying, but she never stopped playing.

The bow glided across the strings in perfect harmony, her fingers selecting only the correct notes. With the chin rest tightly between her chin and shoulder, she took a breath, felt her fingers breathe, felt the energy of the night, and struck one high note. She stood from the bench, let herself cry for a moment, and played a similar tune only in a slightly higher pitch. Still somber, but yet uplifting in the way only a violin can make sadness sound.

She began a performance. She knew she looked mad, and she knew she was mad. She was angry at everything all at once, and that anger danced through the sounds of the violin. She jumped, hopped, skipped, danced, and used the bow and violin to scream in all the ways that she had suppressed.

She felt herself becoming fluid and smooth, and at one point when she looked up the moon had disappeared behind some clouds and that made her feel entirely alone, but it didn’t stop her from playing. She continued with her performance, dancing and playing in a way that was wholly free and eccentric. She ripped the bow across the strings and knew that she could never say the things that she played. Her violin was her voice, her sadness, and her cries.

Her music transitioned to a faster, higher pace, one that made her feel almost hopeful and elated. She stripped her shoes off and walked into the shallows of the pond and played with the tempo of her steps through the water. She could feel the music pulse through the water, and as she continued to play it got faster and faster, and she started thrashing through the water. And when she stopped, she played a slow, reverberating deep note.

She had been playing for nearly forty-five minutes. She stepped from the water, felt the cool grass beneath her feet, and sat down on the park bench. She was out of breath, her heart pounding like a fist on a closed door in her chest. Dirt was stuck to the bottom of her feet and she felt the small jagged rocks stab into her. She took a deep breath, and almost allowed herself to cry. She heard a person behind her, that sounded like an older man.

“My,” he said, “you are quite good.”

She jumped, startled at the sound of his voice, not expecting anybody to be around. His voice didn’t bring her any alarm, only surprise. His voice was soft and gentle.

“Thank you,” she said. She turned away from him, but so she could still see his silhouette. She wanted to keep her distance from the man.

“Thank you for playing,” the man said. “Can I sit with you?”

She didn’t say anything. Her bow was still in her hand, and she had only just started putting the violin back in its case.

“George,” the man said as he walked over toward the bench. He was in a pair of jeans, a red jacket, and a newspaper cap.

She quickly turned to put her stuff away so that he couldn’t see her face. “Leslie,” she said.

“Beautiful night,” he said.

“Do you need something?” she asked him harshly.

He wasn’t offended, only empathetic to the emotion he had listened to. “No,” he said. Then he looked up at the moon and the stars, and out at the water, then finally to the sad woman on the bench in front of him. Said, “It’s the anniversary of my wife’s passing tonight.” Leslie didn’t say anything or look at him. “Do you care if I sit?”

She picked up her violin case and put it in her lap and moved as far over as she could, making sure to turn away from the man. He had a cane, and he used both hands on the can to help him sit with a large exhale. “I come here quite often, when my health allows it,” he started. “But even when it doesn’t allow it, I still find myself here on nights I miss her.”

She was uncomfortable, but not because she was afraid of George, but because she hated for anyone to see her. She looked away from him, said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

He smiled at that. Said, “Are you done playing for the night?” She didn’t say anything, only looked away at the trees, the maples and pines and firs, and bushes that lined the edges of the pond. “That sure was beautiful. My wife played the piano herself. I would write poetry as she played. I didn’t hear her play for a very long time though, what with the dementia and arthritis and all.”

“Did you still write her poetry? Even when she couldn’t play anymore?”

Again, the man smiled, “I still do today.” Leslie didn’t say anything.

There was a connection between Leslie and the old man, one that she was unable to identify. Leslie had no friends, no family, not anymore, and she was entirely alone. She did not talk to people, did not socialize. Not because she didn’t want them, quite the opposite. She loved with her entire body, soul, and heart and wanted somebody to give that love to. She wanted a husband, children, a family. But she didn’t want any child to go through what she went through. She was not beautiful, and most called her hideous, a monster, a catastrophe. She didn’t want her children going through the nightmares that she was forced to go through.

“Why are you sad?” asked George.

“What do you mean?”

“I could always tell when my wife was sad by the way she played the piano. Our souls don’t speak, but they show up in various other ways. For you, just like with my wife, it shows up through your music. For me, it’s through my poetry.”

It was approaching one in the morning. Glimpses of the cars on the interstate could be heard, but not seen, every few minutes. The ripples in the water reflected the moon above them. A few police sirens pierced the air in the far distance. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to tell him, it was that she didn’t know what to tell him. She was sad, had been sad for a very long time, but she was more than sad. She was angry, regretful, and filled her lungs with self-hatred.

With both hands on the top of his cane, George stood up. He held out his shaking, wrinkly, fragile hand to Leslie. “Care to go for a walk?” He leaned heavily on his cane with his other hand.

Leslie slowly reached her hand to his, felt how his hands felt like leather. She didn’t use it to pull herself up, but rather held it out of obligation and stood up on her own. She grasped her other hand around George’s hand and felt the way his hands trembled. She looked at him, one of the very few times she had every purposely looked at somebody but felt protected in the darkness. She felt she could look at him, though, even if it were daylight. The two started walking on the dirt path that looped two miles around the park. They walked slowly, only as fast as George could move, but that didn’t bother Leslie.

The air was laden with a gentle warmth, embracing the nature of the park like a cozy blanket. Wisps of clouds adorned the night sky, their forms illuminated by the soft glow of the moon, casting a hazy luminescence upon the entire scene. As they walked, the noises of the city disappeared, and the world had momentarily paused to savor the nocturnal beauty of the night. The park’s pathways, usually bustling with the footsteps of daytime visitors, now lay deserted, granting respite to George and Leslie as they walked slowly through the midnight hour. They didn’t talk, but listened to the symphony of nature, the intermittent drizzle of rain pattering against the trees and stones, the rhythmic chirping of crickets, and the occasional croak of a frog from the pond’s edge.

“Where did you learn to play?” George asked her.

“My mother,” she said. Nothing more, nothing less.

George felt that she wanted to say more, and let her silence linger between them until she was able to say what she wanted to say. She continued, “I lost a baby. It was just a month ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” George said. “That must be dreadful.” She didn’t say anything, only walked next to George. “Where is your mother?”

She looked at him, then to the ground, said, “She died a few years ago. She was really sick.”

“Ah,” he said. “Loneliness isn’t always bad. It is a difficult path, but one that can lead us toward a deep understanding of ourselves. In the deepest depths of loneliness is the strength to connect. Why, look at us, two lonely people enjoying each other’s company.”

Leslie was going to talk but found it difficult. She wasn’t sure what to say but pondered what the old man had just told her. She had a profound absence of words. Her lips parted, but only to retreat. The weight of unspoken words hang heavily between the two of them. It was with this absence of language that she was reminded why she loved the violin so dearly. It allowed her to express the inexpressible, to give voice to the unutterable. It was a humble acknowledgement to the limitations of language.

“It was my only chance at a family,” she said. “I had gone to the clinic and got a sperm donor. It terrified me, really. To possibly bring a child into this world as ugly as I am.” She smiled a little, but not out of happiness, out of remorse.

“Ugly? You?” She nodded and looked away.

“I’m very large and tall and ugly. People have told me my entire life.”

“And I am very short and old and shriveled!” laughed George. But Leslie did not laugh. George paused and they stopped walking. He started walking off the path toward the pond. The rain had stopped entirely and the smell of earth and fog, with a hint of rosy sweetness, wafted in the now cool breeze. George stood at the edge of the pond, didn’t look back at Leslie and didn’t say anything to her. Only waited for her to come stand with him. Eventually, she walked over. “What is beauty?” George asked her without looking at her but looking over the pond into the night. The city creating a yellow glow in the distance and dim streetlights produced small circles of light down the path. “Do you see the moon right now?” Leslie did not respond. “It is cloudy, so we can’t see it, but we know it’s beauty. You are your own moon, and your self-doubt are the clouds.”

Leslie looked for the moon, but couldn’t see it, only the yellow hew it emitted from behind the clouds. George said, “Beauty is a very intimate, deep construct. It touches our emotions and intellect, and I can tell you after listening to your violin that you are astoundingly beautiful.” He used one hand to grip his cane, and the other, he touched her shoulder. She jumped at his touch, though it was not frightening, only foreign. “Beauty isn’t just looks, though if it were, you are still a beautiful young lady. Beauty is a celebration of diversity and of the richness of the world around us. Is this why you think you are lonely? Because you think you are not beautiful?”

“I think I’m lonely because I don’t have anybody in my life.” She started to cry now, softly, like the intermittent rain that had ceased.

“What if it weren’t for your looks? Would you think yourself beautiful?” She didn’t respond. “What if nobody had eyes to see. Would you still be ugly?” Again, she didn’t respond. “Dear, I am deeply sorry for what happened to you. I have a son, and I couldn’t imagine what you might be going through.” He took his hand off his cane, which fell to the ground, and he raised it to her other arm and held her between both of his hands, said, “You listen to me, what you did tonight was beautiful. Ugliness is deeply rooted in the soul; it rots it and you can smell it. It has to do with the lack of empathy, integrity, kindness, and authenticity. Your exterior self is beautiful. I get that you might not like it. But your inner beauty, the parts you can’t see, are magnificent. I can see that.”

She pulled him into her, and she started to cry. George also started to cry. She reached down for his cane and handed it to him and walked him over to a nearby bench. She pulled out her violin and he crossed his hands over his legs. He watched as she started to play, listened to the sound of her soul. It was slow and somber but shrouded in kindness and light. As she played, she bit her lip so she wouldn’t cry. The violin transported them above the clouds, and she started playing notes that she had long forgotten, notes that reminded her of love.

She played for several minutes, and when she finished, George clapped silently. He stood with the help of his cane, and he walked over to her and gave her a hug. His eyes were slightly wet, and his body had tremors. He thanked her for her performance.

“Thank you,” she replied.

“It’s about time for me to head home,” he said.

“I can walk with you.”

“No, no need for all that. You’ve been lovely to talk to, dear. I hope to hear your music again someday. It’s both beautiful and reminds me of my wife.”

Desperately to keep this man in her life, she begged him to stay, to remain in her life. He said, “I will not be alive long. Part of me thinks I won’t make it through the night most nights. I will be just another person that dies in your life, dear. I am grateful we met tonight, and that I got to hear your play. Please remember this moment as it was, and I’ll always be alive for you.”

George began walking down the path toward the bench the two met. Leslie waved goodbye as she cried, and she said the words, “I love you,” to him. He responded that he loved her too, and she started walking the path in the other direction with her violin packed in its case.