The cold dusty strings
of my first guitar yearn
to be strung once more.
Inside it’s case
it sits there waiting,
wanting to be played.

It has been replaced,
the new and improved electric
sits on my guitar stand
polished and lustrous.
The sun reflecting
off of the new paint.

The old antique acoustic
will be passed on from generation to generation
being played, treasured , then abandoned.
Before it is passed,
I grip it tightly in my warm hands.

It feels like forever
since I have played it
and heard its sweet tune;
the tune that reminds me of my childhood
reverberating throughout my room
and down the hallway.

I pluck each individual string
again and again
not wanting to stop.

I guess it’s like trying to say goodbye
to a good friend.

My door unexpectedly opens,
with a slight creek,
and the new owner of this true treasure
slowly walks toward me.

I remove the pick from the strings and
untie the sling from each end, careful
not to snap the rope.
Slowly,
carefully,
I hand it to him.

I suddenly feel satisfaction
shoot throughout my body
and replace all of the sad feeling
that lies in its way.
Because, I know,
that it is going to be in good hands.

If my guitar could talk,
I can’t imagine what it would say
knowing it was about to have a new owner.
An owner who would care
and share a passion for it.













I reattach the sling to the electric
and from downstairs
the unforgettable sound
of my very first guitar,
perfectly in tune,
slowly drifts away
as it is carried
down the hallway
and into the room of my brother.