Memories on Strings
Pepper Scott
I remember it like it was yesterday.
My father would come home from work, still carrying the day with him on his shoulders. Before anything else, he would walk over to my mom and say the sweetest things. He would ask her how her day went and tell her how happy he was to be home.
Then came the best part.
He would pick up his guitar.
That old guitar had clearly lived a full life. It was a little worn out, but in my eyes, it was beautiful. My father would sit down and play a song or two before we gathered around the table for dinner. The sound of those strings became part of the rhythm of our home, like the evening breeze coming through an open window.
After we lost my father, the only thing he left behind was the guitar.
I was very young, still in elementary school, but I knew that guitar was something special. I started teaching myself how to play by watching the memories I carried of my dad. I remembered how he held it, how his fingers moved, how he found the right notes and chords.
I was not very good.
Actually, I was probably pretty terrible.
But I loved it.
Every little sound felt like a tiny conversation with my father.
Then, one day, the guitar was gone.
My hometown was hit by what people called “the worst flood in a hundred years.” The water came rushing through our lives with a force that no one was prepared for. I watched my father’s guitar get beaten apart, carried away, and disappear.
Some things are hard to explain. The feeling of watching a piece of your memory being taken by the water is one of them.
Years later, when my husband Terry showed me his guitar for the first time, I could not speak.
Not because of the guitar itself.
Because suddenly, the past walked back into the room.
All those memories came rushing in, just like that flood years ago, except this time they brought warmth instead of destruction.
Terry taught me how to play his guitar. We shared those moments together, one chord at a time. But slowly, MS started changing things. It took away the feeling in his fingertips and made the connection between his hands and his thoughts much harder.
The guitar became complicated.
Something he loved became something painful.
Eventually, he put it away, out of sight.
But I never really forgot about it.
Over the years, I would take it out, wipe off the dust, tune the strings, and make sure it was still waiting. A guitar is a funny thing. It can sit quietly in a corner for years and still remember the music.
Today, I took it out again.
I held it for a while. I played a little.
A few minutes was all I could manage.
My fingers were not ready to travel the way my heart wanted them to. But that was okay.
The guitar gave me something today.
It reminded me of my father sitting at home after work, playing before dinner. It reminded me of Terry teaching me patiently, even when life started changing the melody. It reminded me that some things do not disappear just because they become quiet.
Maybe I will play it again.
Maybe I won’t be able to play like I once imagined.
But I do not think of giving it up.
Some treasures are not meant to be perfect. Some are meant to be held, cared for, and passed through the seasons of life with us.
The guitar is still here.
And maybe, in its own quiet way, it is still singing.
