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.’