My grandfather’s guitar sits in a corner of my study
untouched, gathering dust.
When I was young and he was already old, it could pull notes straight from the air
through his fingers and into my ears.
I can hear them, though he is gone and his instrument’s gone quiet.
When I was young, not even ten,
he’d pick it up and start to play and then I’d go still,
stuck to one spot until he was done.
My grandfather’s guitar in his hands made magic, but I was too young to understand
that music is magic made real for a moment.
A fret and a twang and he’d made something that didn’t exist before
and wouldn’t again.
I sometimes imagine myself back there, wearing muddy tennis shoes with tangled hair,
I can hear it, but no song ever sounds the same twice.
2 thoughts on “My Grandfather’s Guitar”
Just like no song ever sounds the same twice….no life is ever the same….as we all move through time we are all singing and playing our own song. ..so uniquely our own. I am beyond words to describe how his life shaped mine and how much I was and am still inspired by his determination and generosity. So much more I wanted to know about him. …so much more I could have learned from him.
I don’t think we ever feel like we have enough time with the ones we love, or that we have learned enough from them. I find that kind of reassuring, though, because as long as we think of them, and we remember them, and we learn from their lives as we do, they’re not really gone.