The dusty guitar once again sees the light, freed from the forsaken closet. The cool wood warms as the hands hold it. How long has it waited to be played? A gentle strum brushes the taut strings. A little off key, yes, but it can be tuned.

An ivory peg start to turn. The E-string goes limp. That’s not right, thinks the guitar. The string is off tune, it needs tightening. But the peg keeps turning and turning until a hand roughly pulls the cord from the instrument’s head.

“No,” cries the guitar, “That string was my pride while I waited in the closet. You can’t take it from me now that I am so close to salvation. Please stop,” it prays.

The callous hands continue. One by one the strings are removed until the empty guitar has nothing left, all its closet treasures thrown away.

“What is left,” it says, “but for me to die, to be thrown away like my precious strings.”

But the hands’ work is only just started. Down by the bridge the guitar feels a tickling. A new string is threaded, strung, and tightened. Then another, and another. The hands took, but now they give. The guitar had forgotten—for so long it had waited in the blackness—that it should have six strings. In the closet it had been so proud of its mismatched five.

The guitar is ready to be played again, now that it has been restrung.
But it had to give up its old closet treasures to be played in the sun.


Listen to my Beautiful voice:


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