Old Guitar
The guitar had stood silently in the corner of her bedroom for years. Really, since the Christmas Day she’s opened it at the ripe age of seven or eight. Occasionally, she would pick it up, hold the body of the instrument against her own just to feel something.
One of the strings was broken — had been since high school when she turned the tuners too far and it snapped — so it always sounded a little off. But when she wanted to pretend to be a rock star, she would hold it close and strum a few lines. Always just a few, always out of tune. Never giving herself fully over.
That was a constant theme in her life: this inability to give herself completely. Whether to a man or a project or an identity or even herself. There was always some piece that was locked away.
Then one day, she picked up that dusty old piece of wood and string. And she tuned the five strings that were left behind and when she finally put her fingers where they were supposed to be and strummed the strings — damn it — that old piece started to sing.
She melted in that moment. Melted — yeah, that’s the only way to say it. It was one of those instances in time when life shifted. When there was a ‘before’ and ‘after’. When something inside of her changed instantly from who she was to who she is.
When that piece inside finally unlocked.
The guitar stood in the corner for most of her life, missing one of the strings. It turns out it was just waiting all along — biding its time until she was finally ready to sing.
