I know a girl who cries when she practices violin because each note sounds so pure it just cuts into her, and then the melody comes pouring out her eyes. Now, to me, everything else just sounds like a lie.–Conor Oberst
Fiddler on the Roof
By: Michelle Curry
Fiddler on the roof fits him properly. Sitting off to the side with his leg propped up, looking over the skyline of the city. Its not quite dusk and the lights are starting to flicker on. He sits there, debating if he should play his song. He takes out his fiddle, handmade by his father, and plucks the strings. Playing it reminds him of home, in the lush rolling hills of Ireland. Everything was much greener there and the dank city puts a bit of a damper on his mood. This wasn’t home for him, it was a distant land that seemed cold and unwelcoming.
Coming to New York was to bring him fortune, new journeys and adventures and enough money to make a life for himself instead of having to farm potatoes like the rest of his siblings. Instead he is a stage hand at a local Cabaret, barely making enough money to afford a bite to eat and a place to sleep at night. He places the cloth that’s embroidered by his mother on his shoulder and brings the fiddle to his chin. He takes a deep breath and with his rosined bow, he begins to play. In his mind, he sings the words “I shall sing a song for you, what shall I sing you? I shall sing a song of 10, what is the song of 10?”
Smooth and methodic his fingers nimbly explore the neck of his instrument. The emotion in his face changes with every note struck and plucked. He looks beautiful, in all senses of the word. His dark black hair cut not too short to accentuate his curls is tousled a bit as the train starts to roll by. The clicking of the tracks is just the rhythm for him to play to. Click clack, click clack, click clack, the sound of urban drum beats doesn’t compare to the Celtic drums of home.
His skin slightly tanned and a bit worn, he wears it well, almost like a badge of honor. The slight stubble just adds to the look of old farm hand. As he finished, he glares back over the now lit up city. Those blues eyes have a sadness in them, a longing for more…and a loneliness that longs for a woman’s touch. I stand there watching unbeknown to him. I want to sing a song for you, but what shall I sing you…and will you accept my song, my fiddler on the roof.