A bell sounded as I entered the shop. I pushed the glass door open and gazed around the dirty room. Guitars lined the wall, filling every space in the air. They hovered in their mounts like colorful angels waiting for the fingers of the one they belonged to to strike a sweet melody and take them home. Amplifiers sat on the floor next to barstools for those who could play. Everything around me was eye candy, but really? What was a right-handed teenage girl doing in a left-handed guitar shop? My brother had told me that there were some right-handed guitars here, but all I saw was those whose strings were on backwards. I strutted through the maze of instruments, looking for the first right-handed guitar I could find, and there it was. It had a long, golden neck and creamy body. I leaned against one of the barstools and sat this guitar on my lap, finger-playing a song that I’d written just a few days before in the middle of the night. This instrument had my soul in its wood, in its strings. It spoke the way I could if I was it. It was heartbroken, and so was I, with its deep resonance that would sing the blues without even trying. It’s just the way my fingers played. I don’t remember exactly what time it was during the song, but it didn’t take long for me to say in my head, “That’s my baby.”

Before long I had that guitar in red, and it was more than I could ever ask for. I’d named it Cortez, because he was not just an object, he was very personal and a love of mine. He got me through the aftermath of a break-up and I was sure that he’d get my through much more than that. If only he’d been there shortly after, when my tears had fallen across my dad’s guitar, in my all-time low, singing through tears the song “Hallelujah.” There is a song for everything, no matter what you’re going through. For me music is just another way to breath. Cortez was my voice when I couldn’t speak, when I wouldn’t share. He says what I can’t say in words. In so many words, Cortez is me.