The Guitar

Inside the small workshop, a quiet, yet, pensive energy hums. The old, calloused hands hover, looking for the precise choice, as they have done countless times. Rosewood? Perhaps maple? Fingertips slide over the mahogany, which speaks up. Yes. That’s the one.

Measuring, tracing, cutting, sanding. All done with gentle and meticulous care. The mahogany’s progress takes on a familiar shape, with smooth curves, perfect to be held. Individual pieces join as one, now, only missing its voice.

Through the bridge, then along its fretted neck, the strings are taut around their tuning pegs. A strum from those old hands, the guitar, finally free to sing.

The real journey is not yet here. Into its hardshell case it goes, a safe darkness until it finds its forever home.

Before the light floods in, it wakes to the unlocking snaps of the buckles. At first a silhouette, but soon turns into the beaming face of a freckled boy.

“Oh my God,” he exclaims, “it’s beautiful!” Hesitant, he touches the strings, slides down to create a vibrating connection. His fingers, long and thin, wrap around the smooth mahogany, lifts the instrument and sets it upon his lap.

Hushed whispers from others are in the room, they wait. The boy, his spirit glowing, brushes the strings with his thumb, his grin expands. A twist of a peg, then another, a strum again, one more adjustment. He can feel it. It can feel it. They are ready.

Together they sing, it’s what the guitar was built for. People laugh, they clap, and in that moment, everything is right. But that moment is short, more is at hand. The guitar is returned to rest for now.

The boy, now a teenager, is steady in his practice. The guitar sings more beautifully every day, echoing the radio, notes flowing in time. As the sun reflects on its smooth edges, the guitar is alive and it vibrates with every stroke of its strings.

The playing stops as the boy’s mother waltzes into the room, a smile on her face and her hands behind her back.

“I got you a little present,” she says, revealing something shiny.

“Oh, neat!” the boy replies. He follows his mother, who places the item on the floor, a stand. It’s simple, yet the velvet highlights will make sure the guitar retains its every smooth edge. The boy has been very careful, laying it to rest inside its case after every use, the care he forever promised.

“Now you can display it with pride,” the mother says, her hands on her hips, and a grin spread wide. She accepts the embrace of her boy after he settles the guitar in its new home. Darkness no longer needs to follow the silence.

The boy, now a young man, has less time to make the guitar hum, but when he does, it breathes life and simplicity into an ever-complicating world.

At his desk, staring into the glowing screen, colour draining from his face, but brightens ever so when he’s accompanied by the young woman. They talk, they laugh, they kiss, and sometimes she asks him to play. Those moments, so intimate, the guitar brings that which nothing else could. It doesn’t always make it back to its stand, and that’s fine.

An accidental note strums from the falling clothes, the guitar’s magic, its fire most likely surpassed. But that’s okay.

The young man, hair growing upon his face, looks in its direction, the guitar hopeful, but other things, he’s too occupied. Thick books on the floor, binders open, their pages ringed with round coffee stains. When the work eases, a small screen fills the void, to bring smiles where it was once the guitar’s role to play.

A honk outside, calling to him, and again it stands alone. Quiet. The gathered dust, provides warmth within the empty room. When he returns, the young woman is with him. She doesn’t ask him to play for her anymore. A routine that no longer requires magic.

The mother of the young man looks proud of her robed son. A square hat upon his head, the tassel flicked aside, bringing laughter and joy. Something the guitar once did. He walks to the window, leans on the wall.

“I’m going to miss this place,” he says. A journey? Perhaps a chance to sing and hum anew, surrounded by strange acoustics. A tap on its head, the guitar stretches for more, but the young man and his mother walk out the door.

The room’s long quiet, interrupted by the boy’s mother. Arms crossed at her chest, she sighs, her nest empty. She removes posters, packs up books, and changes bed sheets.

“There you are,” she says within the closet, only to reappear with its long-forgotten home. The black case is set on the bed, its buckles open with a sharp, menacing flick. She looks at the guitar. “My, you’re dusty, aren’t you?”

Picked up and laid down gently in its old velvet bed, she looks upon it for a moment, a smile forms before she lowers the lid. Within the darkness, the buckles snap shut.