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January 1, 2010
I start 2010 by sitting on my violin, loosening a part I don't even know the name of--the long black piece the strings hang over--the little wooden bridge flying away, hiding under some furniture. When I heard creaking, horror, like I was maiming a living being.

My son cheers me up, agrees to go with me to the violin shop, smiling at my plan to blame the destruction on some anonymous younger relative. "The last time I went with you to this store was 2005? That year the Sox won the World Series! This is a good omen!"