These moments have been frozen in time by the grainy video of my dad’s early 2000s camcorder. She would give living room recitals to an audience of three - mom, dad, me. My older sister started playing the violin when I was an over-energetic three-year-old. Mathematically, for each passing year, the fraction of my life that I did not play violin becomes a smaller and smaller sliver. Nonetheless, it felt surprisingly odd to have to attach a number - even as innocuous as age - to something so essential in my life. I know better than anyone that I started playing when I was six and that I’m now 22. Fifteen years?”Īctually, it has been over 16 years, but I’d messed up the math in the moment. “How long have you been playing?” he followed up enthusiastically. I glanced up to his intrigued expression. “What instrument do you play?” he inquired.
A high school student (I surmise), standing six-feet away, cheerily interrupted me from my exhausted mid-week daze. Just a few days ago, I was waiting for my coffee with my violin case strapped to my back, en route to rehearsal. These days, I frequent the Dunkin’ across the street from my dorm in Kirkland House because the dining hall’s Fogbuster doesn’t really do the trick for me anymore.
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