I stare at the closet doors.
Ugly brown bifold doors that slide open.
They are in the house we moved into
1800 miles away from home.
That east coast house holds memories, tears,
pain and tragedy.
A new start, a new home, a new place.
Behind the closet doors are his guitars.
Those strings played countless chords;
Chords that eased his soul and occupied his mind.
Notes rang out. If you listened, you could hear his story.
I miss his music. I miss his beautiful eyes...
I miss my child.
The doors are open and I take out the acoustic guitar.
Strum to check out the tuning, hoping to play,
But the strings are old and out of tune.
They are worn like my soul.
Tears fall as a place the guitar back.
The last thing he did before he died was play one last song.
He tucked his pick neatly in the strings,
Then he was gone.
I close those ugly brown doors knowing that soon I will try again.
Maybe one day I will restring that guitar,
But for now, I will just remember.