Silent Stirngs

The guitar sat in the corner; quiet for the first time I could ever remember. It always seemed to be so alive with music, because she was always strumming on it. The songs played in my mind like an echo of a lost memory. Cheerful, carefree songs that, even though they didn't always sound wonderful, never failed to make me smile.

It was actually my guitar. I bought it, a promise to myself that I'd learn to play. And I had learned, but I'd given it up shortly after. I'd found writing to be more my thing, so it sat collecting dust for months before she came into my life like a ray of sunshine.

"Do you play?" she'd asked the first time I'd shown her around my place. I'd forgotten I'd left it in my writing office.

"Oh, no. Not interesting for me," I'd shrugged. She walked over to it and picked it up gently, warmly. Brushing off some of the dust, she tuned it and strummed a few chords melodiously with her eyes closed. Listening to her play was like looking into her private feelings.

"Sorry," she apologized when she was done, "I've never had one of my own, so I play whenever I can."

"How did you learn, then?" I asked, amazed that she could be so good without her own guitar.

"My friend lends me hers sometimes. Gave me a few lessons. I'm mostly self-taught, though," she shrugged, uncomfortable talking about herself. Ever since that time, whenever I wanted to write something, she asked if she could play the old thing. Sometimes she'd sing along softly, words that came from her heart and not her head.

"Would you play for me, once?" she asked at one time. I hesitated.

"I don't really play anymore. I was never that good. I like how you play much better than I ever could, anyway." She laughed at that, and continued to strum while I ticked away on my laptop.

I'd let her leave. The one beam of light in my life, and I didn't even follow her into the street after the fight. I'd blame it on the six-pack on the counter, but the cans were all full, untouched. She'd turned off her phone, wouldn't return my calls. What kind of man was I, to let her get in the car, crying, and drive to her mom's house?

The strings were silent now. A mocking silence, a mournful silence, a deafening silence. I reached for it, hesitated, reached again. I sat on the floor, rather than the chair she usually used, strummed a chord. I thought of her face as I strummed, her smile, her laugh. Her warmth, her kindness, her talents, her weaknesses. I lost myself in memories, music flowing from my fingers like it did from hers. I'd discovered her secret -- it wasn't the guitar she played. She played her memories, her love for people, her fears, her secrets. The guitar was simply how she shared with the world.

I packed it up in it's case, ran down the stairs with it, set it in the back of her car. Maybe I could get her to listen, maybe I could get her to come back. Maybe I could tell her 'I love you' the way she'd been telling me for months and I hadn't known it.

Reviews

[TJ]

Wow! What a wonderful piece of writing and I am so pleasantly surprised after reading. I hate anything having to do with romance and love usually but this was wonderful. Your style, your imagery, the way you convey your emotions so strongly. It's great, wonderful.
I loved this!