Mystery

Years ago my Dad found this violin case among my Grandfathers belongings. Inside was this violin. Completely useless as a violin anymore. And was called by a violin maker "good for a flower pot". My Grandfather was not a violinist, and yet here is what looks like at one time would have been a great violin. The only salvageable part, a chin rest, with an Italian village etched into it (which I use).
Playing the violin, I know that anyone who cares about playing developes a real love for their instrument, it becomes part of your body. It becomes like a person, it's own separate personality. When I look at this violin, I can't help but wonder who played it, what was played on that fingerboard and why it was tucked away in a closet, kept, though completely useless and broken.
I see a lot of beauty in it, a tremendous beauty, because all things, even though useless to many and broken have stories, and they are in themselves, beautiful.