the tears, like that sky, were blue,

balmed in a constant, gentle stream.
Filled with achingly quiet strength, healing purpose. 
Vibrating with the tenor of a generation.

He carefully strung his violin with them, using the instructions 
in the back of the book he was holding.
A journal he had found in, of all places, the attic.

His beloved father's journal.

Sigh. What a beautiful performance.



    1. I’m so glad, thanks for saying. That is what I was going for, I mean, this connection across generations…that his father understood, had been where he had been, and was passing on advice and love and understanding etc but not in words, per se.
      But I so enjoy the different ways people read things and what they get out of them.


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