His old guitar leaned against the wall, gathering years of dust. If only it could come out to play one more time. The scars of age were each a reminder of a gig, a concert, and quiet moments in the night when it had to be played.
He looked at it and felt a closeness, a bond, a friendship that lasted through the years. It was carried around from town to town until it was noticed and heard by some who would make it famous.
But it wasn't the fame. It was because he was a part of a team that sang for the love of playing, so he continued doing gigs in small towns and around campfires, reaching the hearts of those who felt it's every beat and strum like a lullaby to the soul.
It's tired now, like its partner, gathering dust and leaving the music to the younger people, who some say learned from them as they were indeed masters of their craft.
He slowly got up and reached for his old friend, caressing her, wiping away the years of dust, and telling it they had one last song to play. Holding it felt natural as he softly strummed its strings to a song they had written long ago. The music flowed out the window and was heard by a group sitting around a campfire who began to sing along, never missing a note or a chorus.
They did like us, my friend, he said as he set it back, leaning against the wall, waiting for the dust of time to rest on both of them.
Mike 2024
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