The Fiddler’s Dance
She comes out onto the stage. Hair
blowing, dress trailing. Fiddle in one hand, tucked under her chin. Bow in the
other, held high like a rapier. Enraptured, the audience watches, waiting for
that magical moment.
It comes. She lowers the bow and draws
it across the strings, the first note ringing loud and clear, as the song
begins. The bow dances in her hands, and her fingers seem to move in a jig
across the strings. The melody that comes forth is sweet and yet haunting,
joyous and yet so very lonely. But this is just the beginning.
Suddenly, she flies into a new beat,
faster and far more frivolous. She begins to run and dance across the stage,
fiddle still flying. Her smile is bright, as bright as the music that streams
from the strings. Her hair whips around her head like golden rain, while her bright
eyes sparkle with joy. This is what she was born for. Her audience clapping
along, she plays with a reckless abandon, not caring at all what others think,
but empowered by the knowledge that they approve.
So she plays. She plays so long and so vigorously that the fibers of the bow begin to fray. Yet the music remains as sweet as ever. And when at last she comes to a stop, and the resounding cheers break across her like a wave, she is in the happiest place in the world.
