This is my guitar, this is how I communicate. When I play, I strum my emotions. I reveal my passion with the deep, strong music of the flamenco. I play out my sympathy with the hymn “Amazing Grace”. I show my affection with strands of every love song written by man. I show anger in the tunes of civil rights’ marchers. I show my faith in old gospel music from years ago. My mind muses in a jazz rendition. This is my guitar, the music opens my heart and unveils the real me.
When I was three, my father taught me how to play. Of course my fingers were too small for many chords, but as I grew, so did my knowledge of the guitar and life in general. I will always be grateful to my father for the things he taught me, but the real story is of my growth with the guitar. The strings taught me beauty and strength. I feel the instrument as only a few are capable. My life resonates in its offerings. I speak through my music. The poetry of the strings brings me to life. I am nothing without my instrument.
Written for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner: Week #07 – 2017.