The first time I carried it, I didn’t realize how heavy it was.

All I remember was the exhilaration that accompanied carrying my brand-new, felt-wrapped case,

Up the steps every Tuesday and Thursday,

Eagerly toting my instrument from the classroom straight to my stand.

I didn’t mind that my music folder was bursting with papers and cumbersome to carry;

I didn’t mind that my chin rest was bulky and rested awkwardly alongside my chubby cheek;

I didn’t even mind the way my fingers ineptly and clumsily fumbled with the buttons

Of my 3-by-4 inch, battery-operated, standard-issue string tuner,

Because I knew, with time,

I would grow beyond my ineptitude.

My fingers themselves would carry a grace and poise

Unfamiliar to those who left their instruments by the wayside,

Refusing to shoulder the burden any longer.

My fingers would be light, but strong,

And capable of carrying much more than the weight of my violin.

But time played on, and as those young days slid into years,

I found it increasingly difficult for me to carry my load:

My case’s single handle spontaneously came off;

Its backstrap unraveled into a tangled pool of thread;

The velcro from my last-resort, safety clasp wore itself off, section by section, unable to be restored.

Yet it didn’t matter; my fingers were accustomed to carrying the burden,

And they found other ways to accommodate.

The strap on my instrument’s back learned to cross comfortably around my side,

And when that finally broke beyond repair, my hands grew to encompass the width of my case,

Selflessly fighting against the tension that arose from such an unnatural stretch of the hand,

Even when uncomfortable,

Even when the act of lying, flat palmed, against such a boxy object caused too much pain.

My fingers, especially, refused to let go,

Despite the strain.

All around me, I could hear the hushed, clandestine complaints of my classmates,

Muttering about the unbearability of the weight of their heavy cases,

Their enormous instruments,

Too much of a hassle for them to bear.

They set down their burdens, but for me,

My fingers knew the path that I would follow.

Now, I know that when my body grows old and decrepit,

When my hands refuse to move quite as quickly, incapable of performing the pieces from my past,

My fingers will still remember the weight they proudly carried,

Every Tuesday and Thursday,

Up the steps

And into the classroom

And straight to my stand

Ready and eager to play.