Well, here I am in the corner waiting. Still waiting. I got my hopes up one time when I was dusted and another when I was moved, but it turns out it was only a part of re-arranging the room. I’m helpless, mute, except when the kittens play near me and a paw or tail rap against my sound board. My heart sings at that brief contact, the reverberation is a reminder of what I really am, or was, or can be again. It was months and months—more than a year ago actually when my strings were removed, and taken away somewhere. I’ve not seen them since. The excuse I overheard was they were old, floppy, and of a type too harsh for the hands of the would-be player’s hands.
The hope that act carried has faded and died. The promised new strings were not forthcoming. I languish mute in my new corner. Displayed alongside the 12″ vinyl recordings that are never played. At least I have my memories. I was carried to Texas and back once. Was played while there. I remember being played and loved daily. Of friends being played alongside me. The strumming and singing. The person who played me even made me a handcrafted leather strap. I dream of a day when someone will love me again. Give me back my voice. For now, I sit in my corner mute and dream of Segovia, Doc, Joni, Dylan, Jobim. I could be happy with the first tentative plucks of a nervous amateur.