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Witness


by Andrew Stancek


I'll only take the violin.

 

When I was eleven, father got me an audition with the Maestro. After a few bars he frowned, hobbled to the door.  The violin hung on the wall after that, a witness.

 

The ornamental mahogany furniture and Persian rugs were sold piece by piece to slake father's thirst.  When I found him, his bulging eyes stared at the violin.

 

I unhook it, wrap it in an old coat, carry it out, hugged close.

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