Status: one-shot
Sing a Song of Forgetting
one/one
It sat, carefully balanced on the top of the bookshelf, it’s deep red wood gathering dust. Every time she looked at it she remembered rough, tired hands plucking at strings, or gently guiding hers to the proper frets. This is a G chord. See, easy! Now play the C… She’d cry. And still she could not bring herself to put it away. His last solid memory.
She’d trained herself not to look at it. Not to hear it’s soft twang echo through the hallway. Not to remember the intensely beautiful sound he could produce from such a worn out instrument. She’d forced herself to move on.
◆◆◆
She focused entirely on the job at hand. Staring intently as her hands methodically filled the washer with clothes, unconsciously moving to the beat of the dryers lined up against the wall, spinning in sync. A voice suddenly broke through her concentration.
“Have a coffee with me?” He was at the laundromat every time she was, but she’d never stopped to pay any attention to him. Now she noticed him, watching her with a facade of confidence.
“What?”
“You. Me. Coffee. Now.” He flashed her a shaky smile and she found herself smiling back. It even managed to reach her eyes, though faintly.
“I’d like that.”
She’d let him into her house. She hadn’t bought anybody home with her since it happened yet the place was unnaturally clean.
“I didn’t know you played guitar.” He’d taken the instrument down and blew off the dust before she managed to reply.
“I-I don’t.” Whisper quiet. He just nodded. By now he’d discovered how horribly out of tune it was, fixed it, and gently brushed his fingers over the strings.
She sat down, her legs shaking so much they threatened to collapse. She watched him, wishing he’d put the instrument down, but unable to form the words to tell him. Suppressed memories were forcing their way to the forefront of her mind. Cracking through the walls she had fought so hard to build…
◆◆◆
“This is for my beautiful daughter in the front row. She hasn’t missed a show since she was conceived.” The audience laughs. I can’t stop grinning. My Dad. The greatest man on earth.
We’re getting mobbed by fans on the way to the bus.
“Come have a drink with us!!”
“Sorry guys, you know I’d love to, but I’ve got a big day tomorrow. This gorgeous gal here starts school.” He picks up my six year old self and leaves the fans behind.
“This is for my Dad, the guy who taught me to play guitar and still insists on singing me to sleep. I’m nineteen, Dad.” I guess the humor runs in the family. It’s the acknowledgement in my novel. He spends an entire two days reading it. He tells me he’s never been more proud.
Three weeks later the coughing starts.
Four months later I’m standing at his funeral.
◆◆◆
She hadn’t noticed the tears streaming down her face until he put the guitar down and wrapped his arms around her. She automatically flinched away. Scared of the questions. Of him wanting her to talk. But he was silent.
A moment passed. She struggled to block out the pain that had come flooding back. To rebuild the walls around her heart. But it was like trying to fix a dilapidated house with duct tape. A lost cause.
Suddenly she felt the guitar in her hands. The familiar texture of the chipped wood. The tingle it left in her fingers, only hinting at the magic it could create. She glanced down to see him pushing it towards her. Her tears fell harder now as she grasped the neck of the guitar and let her head fall on his shoulder as he embraced her again.
Slowly, he brought his lips to her ear to murmur two short words.
“It’s okay.” Not; Want to talk about it? Or; Are you okay? Or even; Everything’s going to be alright. Just two simple words, spoken with such understanding, that she allowed herself to let go of her barriers and remember.
She’d trained herself not to look at it. Not to hear it’s soft twang echo through the hallway. Not to remember the intensely beautiful sound he could produce from such a worn out instrument. She’d forced herself to move on.
◆◆◆
She focused entirely on the job at hand. Staring intently as her hands methodically filled the washer with clothes, unconsciously moving to the beat of the dryers lined up against the wall, spinning in sync. A voice suddenly broke through her concentration.
“Have a coffee with me?” He was at the laundromat every time she was, but she’d never stopped to pay any attention to him. Now she noticed him, watching her with a facade of confidence.
“What?”
“You. Me. Coffee. Now.” He flashed her a shaky smile and she found herself smiling back. It even managed to reach her eyes, though faintly.
“I’d like that.”
She’d let him into her house. She hadn’t bought anybody home with her since it happened yet the place was unnaturally clean.
“I didn’t know you played guitar.” He’d taken the instrument down and blew off the dust before she managed to reply.
“I-I don’t.” Whisper quiet. He just nodded. By now he’d discovered how horribly out of tune it was, fixed it, and gently brushed his fingers over the strings.
She sat down, her legs shaking so much they threatened to collapse. She watched him, wishing he’d put the instrument down, but unable to form the words to tell him. Suppressed memories were forcing their way to the forefront of her mind. Cracking through the walls she had fought so hard to build…
◆◆◆
“This is for my beautiful daughter in the front row. She hasn’t missed a show since she was conceived.” The audience laughs. I can’t stop grinning. My Dad. The greatest man on earth.
We’re getting mobbed by fans on the way to the bus.
“Come have a drink with us!!”
“Sorry guys, you know I’d love to, but I’ve got a big day tomorrow. This gorgeous gal here starts school.” He picks up my six year old self and leaves the fans behind.
“This is for my Dad, the guy who taught me to play guitar and still insists on singing me to sleep. I’m nineteen, Dad.” I guess the humor runs in the family. It’s the acknowledgement in my novel. He spends an entire two days reading it. He tells me he’s never been more proud.
Three weeks later the coughing starts.
Four months later I’m standing at his funeral.
◆◆◆
She hadn’t noticed the tears streaming down her face until he put the guitar down and wrapped his arms around her. She automatically flinched away. Scared of the questions. Of him wanting her to talk. But he was silent.
A moment passed. She struggled to block out the pain that had come flooding back. To rebuild the walls around her heart. But it was like trying to fix a dilapidated house with duct tape. A lost cause.
Suddenly she felt the guitar in her hands. The familiar texture of the chipped wood. The tingle it left in her fingers, only hinting at the magic it could create. She glanced down to see him pushing it towards her. Her tears fell harder now as she grasped the neck of the guitar and let her head fall on his shoulder as he embraced her again.
Slowly, he brought his lips to her ear to murmur two short words.
“It’s okay.” Not; Want to talk about it? Or; Are you okay? Or even; Everything’s going to be alright. Just two simple words, spoken with such understanding, that she allowed herself to let go of her barriers and remember.
♠ ♠ ♠
yah...comments are nice