In the eternal darkness of midnight I hesitantly shuffled across the room, burdened by my limitless melancholy. The deafening silence of isolation pounded my ears while a pungent smell assaulted my nostrils like the stench of an abandoned graveyard. Suddenly , silver shards of moonlight pierced through the translucent antique curtains of the bedroom, illuminating the dusty violin case in the corner and faded charcoal suit that hung dejected on one side. Both stood forlorn for their master who would never return.
The realisation reverberated inside my head as I collapsed into the arms of emptiness:
Grandpa is gone. Grandpa……is never coming back.
Heart throbbing with anguish and hands trembling with grief, I gently picked up a photograph that was sitting on the bedside table.  In the photo was Grandpa, an accomplished violinist, dressed sharply in  magnificent charcoal suit. He held his beloved violin in one hand and my tiny hand in the other. Gazing at my seven year old self, nostalgia overwhelmed my senses as I reminisced about the happy and carefree days of my childhood. I missed the days when Grandpa would play a lullaby on his violin every night to lull me to sleep. I yearned for the days when he would play a song to placate me in times of sadness or strife. His music had an otherworldly quality , unlike any I’ve ever heard.  We were united through the music, spiritually harmonised as one entity.
One summer’s night, Grandpa had composed a duet piece that could only be played by two accomplished violinists, and said when I was old enough we would play the piece together and have our own concerts around the world.
‘Promise?’ Grandpa had asked, smiling. He held out his little finger , beckoning me to do the same.
‘I promise, ’ I had replied, in my high pitched innocent childish voice, and we entwined our little fingers together, forming an unbreakable bond between a grandpa and his beloved grandson.
But I never fulfilled that promise…
As time passed, my childhood innocence was tainted by the myriad of harsh experiences brought on by the  imperfect world. The temptation of the Forbidden Fruit drove me away from the morals that Grandpa had instilled in me. As a result w vast chasm of misunderstanding had formed between me and my family. Worst of all, a chasm had formed between me and Grandpa.
‘Are you ready to play the duet?’ Grandpa had pleaded many times, desperately hoping for once that I would say yes.
‘NO! I told you! Playing the violin is a waste of time!’ I shouted. Resentment and frustration, fuelled by aggressive teenage hormones, took control over my body and mind. My mouth spat out venom as I told him that I never wanted to see him again. The last thing I saw as I stormed out of the room was my frail Grandpa, stung by the hostility of my words, standing with tears flooding down his face. His expression was bleeding with sadness, sorrow, surprise, but not anger; he loved me too much to be angry with me.
That was the last time I saw Grandpa. The next time was today, in the morgue, his previously compassionate eyes now resembling rhinestones embedded in his ash white face. A single tear soon became a torrent as an intense feeling of regret buried my remorseful soul in sorrow. What have i done? I admonished my selfish behaviour bitterly. As I wiped the streams of tears from my grief stricken face, my eyes settled on a grey leather case that loomed into the corner of my vision. With fumbling hands, I unzipped it to behold a special instrument – Grandpa’s violin, and a music score for the duet.
I closed my eyes as I placed the violin on my left shoulder and gently positioned the bow on the strings. The soft , lovely melody of the music resonated within my soul. The worries of my daily life, along the bitter taste of loneliness that had rested on my tongue, suddenly disappeared like tears in the rain. The warmth from the music was so strong I found my heart rejoicing in the forgotten feelings of inseparable family affection. In my mind, I was transported back to the days of my childhood, back to the days when Grandpa would play a lullaby on his violin.
Suddenly, besides the soothing harmony of the violin, I heard the building crescendo of another violin resonating in the background. The beautiful and authentic tune perfectly matched the part that was supposed to be played by Grandpa in the duet, yet bizarrely I knew I was the only person in the room.
Grandpa was with me, I was sure of it, and he must be playing his violin in heaven.
Reluctantly, I placed my violin down at the conclusion of the piece. I would never again experience the physical presence of Grandpa’s affectionate arms around me but I didn’t mind. As long as I had my violin with me, I knew that Grandpa would always be beside me, playing the duet together…….