The Cello He Placed in My Hands

My father had a stroke, and as his health began to change, he gave me his cello.

He is still here. He has not left us. But receiving the instrument felt heavier than I expected, because it carried an unspoken truth: there may come a time when he can no longer play it—or when I will have to hold it without him here.

Learning the cello has been difficult for me. My hands do not yet know where to go. The bow catches. The notes sometimes tremble, scrape, or refuse to become music. But perhaps the hardest part is not learning the instrument. It is understanding what it represents.

Every time I hold it, I feel close to my father—and frightened of losing him.

The cello contains the touch of his hands, the music he once made, and a part of the life he entrusted to me. I want to learn to play it because I want his music to continue. Yet practicing can feel like preparing for a goodbye I am not ready to accept.

The cello standing before this painting feels like a conversation between two forms of expression. The painting holds tangled marks, open space, uncertainty, and the struggle to move forward. The cello holds a voice I am still trying to find.

Neither is polished. Neither is resolved. Both ask me to remain present.

My father is still here, and I do not want to grieve him before he is gone. I want to honor the time we still have. I want to ask him questions, hear his stories, and let him know that the cello is not simply an object he passed down to me. It is a living connection between us.

Perhaps I do not have to play it beautifully yet.

Perhaps, for now, it is enough to place the bow against the strings and try—to let each imperfect note say:

I remember your hands. I carry your music. And while you are still here, I am listening.