The parlor smells of lemon polish this morning, the light gentle. Mama smooths my dress, settles the great white bow onto my curls, and gently settles Papa’s Heberlein violin beneath my chin. He left it behind when he went west last spring to help lay new railroad lines. His last letter, dated April 1913, dusted with the scent of travel, said he missed its voice almost as much as ours. Outside our window, automobiles rattle past like impatient beetles, suffragettes gather on the corner of Bedford and DeKalb, banners snapping in the breeze. Even the newspapers talk of troubles spreading across Europe, though Mama insists the world has weathered storms before. The photographer asks me to hold still, but my fingers ache to play Papa’s melody. Mama says this portrait will travel to him soon, proof that his music hasn’t gone quiet at home.
