The Anatomy of a Hurdy-Gurdy
A medieval tale of love, loss and music
The curve of the body is yours. Wooden lines live and breathe. I cradle you, as if you were still a part of me, but you are not. My instrument is angular yet perfectly rounded, yet with interruptions. Its rough edges are worn smooth through years of repetitions. Diners at their long tables watch the instrument, not me. My best clothes would not count among their worst. I blend into the stone walls. That one night, you watched me and we listened to each other’s breath and heartbeat as if it were an orchestra.
I turn the handle and begin, yet the banquet conversation does not still. Most continue with their own drone and melody. The wheel runs crooked. Its motion will never be as pure. My arm turns the handle in perfect muscle memory and the cracked wheel goes around and around. The beating I received was his muscle memory. I didn’t know you had a husband or that it would be impossible to play for three months with broken hands. Eventually, the wheel turned again and the people danced, but it was never the same.
Within the bridge, there lies a peculiar tension. The luthier says that once day it will break, like the back of a laborer carrying some great load. For now, I play and the strings sing sweet lies, just as you did to me.
