She remembers standing alone in a room; a violin rests beneath her chin.
A beret is tilted on top of her semi-long hair and a cloth bag with
a long strap dangles from her left shoulder.
She remembers a chair against the white brick wall and a half bottle
of red wine on top of a small table. Records stand upright, a bit sideways,
in a cabinet by a window with no curtains.
She remembers she is frowning or concentrating, the memory not so clear.
She does not remember the light bulbs are lit and a couch is pushed
up against the opposite wall or the stack of sheet music in various
folders, open on the floor.
She does not remember the face of the man, how stern, yet
impressed as he looked at her, his fingers twist a key, his breath the
brevity of cherry coffee beans.
She remembers no interest, until she saw Pasqual hold the violin
under his chin, and now, and long ago, she cannot put one down.
She remembers she cut her fingernails short, removed the red polish
and found a teacher.
She remembers how it hurts not to play like the dreams of him, strong
enough to carry her from her pillow.
She does not remember what happened the night the photo was taken.
Cream over cherries, picked from his tree and brought to her, the
morning sun on their red skins.
She does not remember the flash, how she would not look up, but
sat the violin down and could not play.
He remembers the artist, how she plucked the strings, the bow back
and forth, and how she played his song.
She remembers now, how she moved about the room, rocking on
her heels, and caught the last light.
Sally Showalter picked up a crayon, pencil, then a pen, learned to type on an electric typewriter in high school back in the (uh-um), and now appreciates the computer keyboard. She has studied fiction throughout the community of Tucson, AZ, as well as workshops out of state and the country. She loves writing poetry, memoir and the moods of journal writing. Showalter is a member of a writer’s group that is currently working on a book of their collective writing over the past fourteen years. Other joys are her husband, family, rescuing cats and puttering in her garden.