Since a month, everything had been enormously confusing, a dream-like, but today, it reached its peak.
The moment I remembered the instrument, I began to sweat and breathe heavily. Goosebumps climbed my skin. The world spun. Images of the same violin flashed very quickly before my eyes.
Images of me. Holding it. Playing a note I couldn’t identify.
It was mine.
I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the wall until after seconds my muscles grew less tense, and I relaxed.
"What.. was.. that?" the words escaped my lips hesitantly.
Why these scattered images only floated on my conscious and gave me the illusion of recalling. Why I remembered that note. Why it wasn’t affected by the injury of my head, and wasn't just buried with the rest of memories. Many questions concerning music and it’s relationship to something beyond the physical world, something like my soul, invaded my mind until I was brought back to reality by Rose, who was calling me.
I followed her down to the kitchen. Her face was not the one I met ten minutes ago. It wore a couple of sincere, compassionate eyes, and was disguised in a smile; a true smile though. I hid my wonder, and resisted the desire to question her peculiar behavior. I chose to sit on the counter while she was pouring milk over the flour bowel.
"I thought you might like to share in making some pancakes or even in watching," said my mother before scrubbing the eggs' shells very well with soap, and then rinsing them with water.
"Of course, I'd love to," I replayed willingly, pushing any of the noon thoughts off my head. I grabbed the whisk which I logically related to the process of making pancakes.
"Oh, no! wait!" She cried anxiously, "Honey, you were in a place that I haven't entered in years. Dust was all over the place. Can you just go wash your hands?"
"Oops! Sure. Obviously, my mind was absent."
"Absent?" her voice’s tone pitched in surprise.
"Honestly, I was trying to understand your edgy reaction over being there."
She remained silent as she broke the eggs. Then, after inhaling sharply, she answered, "Dear, your father and I had so much trouble in the early years of our marriage. Having to look back at those pictures brings tears to my eyes. And.."
"But you seemed very happy in the pictures." I interrupted.
"I know." She picked up the whisk, gave me her back, and continued, "Why do you think I have to explain to you about our dead days, today. The past has gone."
She turned to look into my eyes challengingly, yet sympathetically, "We have future. Let's move on."
"Be gentle on the whisk! You are washing it for the third time now."
"Let's move on, Lily."
I wasn't sure if she ignored my observant, or she was deaf to it.
"Can I have the violin only?"
"You can't! That is especially something I want you to completely erase from your head."
"But I can't see how it could be a part of the early years of your marriage you don't want to bring up again." I was sarcastic now to her unreasonable orders, noticing how the rhythm of her obsessive cleaning escalated by the conversation.
"I..," she began to whisk the mixture violently, "Michael brought you this thing, and you used to play. I can't be certain of why I don't like it." she pursed her lips, "Maybe because it shares the dust with the bitter mess around it."
"And you like clean things. The extremely clean things."
"I do." she said in relief.
It was the day I knew about my mum's obsessive behavior, and about her pained look at the past. That explained the anti-depressants heaped in her drawers. I was aware that it was just a surface explanation, yet I couldn't but respect her desires in the meantime. Therefore, and after that conversation, no attempts were made to get the violin.