Blossoming
A poem by Patricia McCue

Blossoming

Last night’s dream
Sitting at an outdoor café
Wrought iron table
White cobblestones under my feet
Across from me – my mother

You should give it up, she said
You just aren’t blossoming
My heart fell
Fifteen years of violin lessons
What would blossoming look like Mom?
Or sound like?

But it was not my Mom
telling me that I wasn’t good enough
It was me
Always comparing myself
to the others
Younger, classically trained,
who play so quickly and effortlessly

I need to look for the blossoms
The stiff, crooked wrist
now flexes gracefully
The scratch of bow on strings
now soothing vibrations
Ancient tunes ornamented with
bowed triplets, double stops, grace notes

Not blossoming?
The sweet scent of gardenias
overpowers me

About the Author:

Patricia McCue has been teaching middle school science for many years. Her writing has been published in peer-reviewed journals such as NSTA’s Science Scope. In her free time, she continues to study and play Traditional Irish Music on the fiddle.

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