The Guitar
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The guitar leaned against the gas fireplace more as a conversation piece. Don’s grandmother gifted it to her son. Tossing it out while his father was alive was just not right. With his father now gone, though, the guitar rested against the fireplace.
Nobody in the family remembers the last time it was played on a regular basis. It’s doubtful that it was even in tune, what with all the temperature changes inside. Probably needed new strings.
Don last picked it up three years ago. Certain it was out of tune, he tuned it according to what he knew about tuning guitars and then strummed a few chords.
Fumbling between three most common chords, he got bored and put it down.
Now he remembered why he never got further than those three chords: the bar chord. If only he had mastered that bar chord, he could’ve been a decent guitarist.
Well, not really.
He didn’t have the desire to push through when it was tough.
A dozen years ago when he was more serious, his fingertips were sufficiently hardened after working with it daily for a month, but those blasted bar chords. He didn’t bother to strengthen that grip, else he’d be strumming every day, Now Don just sits and admires those who can.
He’s convinced it’s a metaphor for life. Skills and talents going dormant or unused or untapped.
The guitar still rests in the corner waiting to be used, waiting for good music to be played on it.
It might wait a long time.
The Guitar
Yeah, this is just another reminder of the many things I've wished -- but not wished enough to make it happen -- to have done earlier in my life. I have daily reminders of these regrets already, so I won't lean any of them against the fireplace.
Making music is beautiful if only Don would try a little harder; what a shame.