Page 60 of Best Year Ever

I raise my hand up and place my fingers on the strings, just touch and lift, and the whisper of sound proves just how out of tune an instrument can get in almost eighteen months. I eye the bow, still strapped into the case, its mother of pearl inlay shining, the horsehair loose and smooth.

I’m not hyperventilating or holding my breath. I’m standing in front of a mirror with a violin tucked under my chin. Like anyone would.

Okay, I know. Not like anyone. There’s a large population of people who would never do this. But right now, at this moment, it doesn’t feel exceptional. Not horrible, not wonderful. Just—there it is. Here I am.

I did the thing I’ve been wanting (maybe needing) to do and it didn’t kill me. It didn’t even hurt. No shocks (and trust me, now I know shocks.) It didn’t restore my previous urge to perform. It didn’t make me scream or cry or throw anything. It didn’t turn me back into a violinist. It didn’t shake the earth beneath my feet.

Picking up the instrument didn’t change me. I’m still just Sage Whitney. And that feels pretty good to me.

I wrap my fingers around the scroll, staring for a minute at the elegant carved lines I haven’t looked at for such a long time. The details are beautiful. I know there are cheap instruments and moderate ones and this one (yes, it’s worth a lot of money, and yes, I know that I’m very lucky to have it, and thank you very much, but I probably don’t need any reminders that putting it on a shelf and ignoring it is the instrumental equivalent of garaging the Ferrari and never driving it, just rubbing it with a diaper and telling it how perfect it is – I GET IT).

For a couple of minutes, I can stand here and appreciate it. And I do.

Then I nestle it back into its case, run my finger around the edge of the lid, and close it again.

As I pull myself together for work, a feeling prickles at the back of my brain. There’s something I should do. I didn’t forget to take my vitamins. My bed is made. I ate a week’s worth of cheese, so I’m probably not hungry.

Oh. I know.

I pick up my phone and text my mom.

‘Thank you for always supporting me and making sure I had opportunities to excel.’

Her response comes back so fast she must have had her phone in hand.

‘What’s wrong? Are you okay?’

I pull a thick fisherman’s sweater over my head and untuck my hair from the neck. An earbud in, I tell my phone to call my mom as I put on my shoes.

She answers without any of the preliminaries most people find normal. Like saying hello.

“Are you in crisis?” My mom is the least subtle worrier on the eastern seaboard. It’s possible that her worry and my tendency to think I have every illness I hear about are related.

“No, Mom. I’m good. Just feeling nostalgic and grateful.”

She makes a short sighing sound, and without seeing her face, I can’t read it. Frustration? Relief? Annoyance?

“Sorry if my gratitude freaks you out.”

She makes another sound that I can’t quite translate. I keep going. “I picked up the violin for a minute today, and I’m just feeling aware that you invested a lot of time and money and hope into my training. And I appreciate it.”

“So you’re playing again?” Okay, this one I don’t need any help with. There is undiluted joy there. So much hope and excitement that sends her voice into a register about two octaves higher than normal.

“I didn’t say that. And no, I didn’t even play it. But I picked it up.”

I should have made this a video call. That way, I could see if she was wrinkling her nose or shaking her head or—heaven forbid—crying.

“Aww, Sage. I’m glad.”

And without seeing her, I know she’s smiling. She’s not being dramatic. She’s not worried. She’s actually just pleasantly surprised and happy that I managed to lift a thirteen-ounce instrument.

“Thanks. Me, too.” I grab my bag as I head out the door. “I’m off to work now. What are you doing this afternoon?” I ask.

“Last farmer’s market at Riverside,” she says. My mother is definitely a true New Yorker, and that means she loves concrete and elevators and leaving the city in the summer. And definitely taking advantage of the farmer’s markets. She has favorite vendors. People hold things for her, knowing what she’ll like. Knowing she’ll come. She tips big. She calls it symbiosis.

“Apples?” I ask, remembering the cute old man who wears a leather apron and holds a knife in his hand, offering us sample slices of his hybrids. Best apples ever.

“Obviously. I need to get enough to last me at least a month. What am I going to do when I run out?”

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