She Marries a Violinist Her mother boils the telephone in tears; her father floats silently over the pages of his novel. They regret her piano lessons. He doesn’t have a steady job; his violin reclines in its velvet mooring while she packs and unpacks the huge dusk of concert halls.
Her parents drive love like a heavy car; she plays the back seat game and says what is almost on the tip of her tongue:
“I love you both” means “My violinist is a darkened boat, and I am what I have become, a duet polishing the hard lake of departure.”