Rosin

The case is empty on the stool in front of my knees. I can hear the wire strings carefully being tended to behind me. G-D-A-E. It's been in that order for eight or so years now. During this time, I pull out the small maple block from the secret compartment in the case, and then I free the bow from its bindings on the top half of the case. I twist the bottom of the bow to tighten it to the width of a pencil. Then I slide the block back and forth along the white horse hair, leaving a trail of white powder. Every time it mesmerizes me; I am put in a trance for a minute or so by the constant sliding back and forth.
The simple black notes are before me now. I've been looking at the same black notes for eight years now. Their pattern hardly changes, yet it is always a pleasure to play them. Instead of to the right, my arms are outstretched in front of me, carefully caressing the wooden neck that has stood by my side for so long. The bow hypnotically glides along the wire, vibrating the wood. In eight years, I could not produce nearly as lovely a sound with wood as I had with metal in four years. But the difference was the feeling that came from it. Like reading Anne of Green Gables for no reason instead of reading the Old Man and the Sea. Like writing a story rather than an essay.
I lived each week for this feeling. To come back to everything familiar; to be at a place where the years stopped when I was seven. Where nothing was expected of me but to reach my aspiration from so many long years ago. In eight years, nothing has changed in this sacred place.
It's funny how when I think of it now, the number eight looks like an infinity symbol, but I have to wonder how long it will last. Within a year I know that number will change. Just for now, though, I'd like to feel like the feeling could last an eternity.
It's always painful to rest the wooden body back in the black casket...like burying a loved one that can only come alive once a week for a half hour.
Why is there such a difference between metal and wood? I know the answer, after much contemplation. After things were set into a completely different perspective and changed my life outside of the young life that never left me in the small, comforting studio. Why are we forced to permanently leave such lives of familiarity and comfort?