The Violin Tree

The Violin Tree

‘It should rain violins,’ he thought, before immediately thinking better of it.
‘No. There should be a violin tree.’

This he considered saying aloud, but then again thought better of it.

‘There should be a violin tree because everyone should be able to just reach up and snatch a violin.’

This thought he rolled around in his mouth like an acidy spoonful of molasses. It was sweet, but sharp, too. It was complex and rich.

‘If I had my druthers, no one would have to buy a violin; they could just take one from the violin tree.’

‘But then about the luthiers?’ he thought to himself, still more quietly – the poor luthiers who must certainly insist that we buy.

‘Perhaps the luthiers could become violin tree farmers,’ he thought, settling into his imagined idyll like a new overstuffed cushion.

The orchards would be unbelievable. Even unending rows of lavender in the south of France could not compete with the glory of a violin tree orchard.

‘Yes,’ he thought. ‘There ought to be a violin tree.’

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