ghost, little ghost
the tiple begs me. it has 10 strings, but one is broken. without it, my grandfather might never have woo’ed my grandmother, and i might not be here, or i might be someone else entirely. it is likely more the former than the latter.
i strum my other beasts; you might think they were the same creatures, but they are different enough  for their own sake.
my own history is important to me, but i worry what happens next. everything is disposed of  and discarded rather than handed down. little ghost on the shelf, when i pass you on, i’ll explain and just be so certain that he understands before you are his. you are his blood.
did you know, little ghost, that you have a distant friend? a creature that is entrusted to my cousin? will he ever play the beast of my other grandfather?
there’s a storm inside you. aside from some gentle strums i’ve given you, you’ve not roared in all the time i’ve known you. sequestered in your canvas, what other stories do you have? did he take you with him during the world war? you are old enough for both of them.
there’s a man who says he can look at you, and tell me if you can let the years of silence be forgotten, or if your notes are gone for good. it’s a gamble. it is final. what he  might say scares me.
but even if you are silent, you are still part of me. the dust inside the bag - is some of it my grandfather’s skin cells?
were his fingers the last to touch this fret, to grip this pick?
are we shaking hands across the years?
Friday, April 22, 2011