Ghost Strings

Spring 2020

I took piano lessons when I was too young to remember

and I didn't like it

because I didn't want to play

what Ms. Brown wanted me to play

So I stopped going and my mother was glad

Growing up, I used to play my grandma's Wersi organ 

at my grandparent's house

She had this huge organ that my dad 

and grandfather built from a kit 

My grandpa kept a record in pencil

of the long hours they spent,

putting it together piece by piece

I found these records safely kept

in the piano bench, 

along with her favorite sheet music

The organ sat in her Sun Room

with that bright yellow couch,

marigold pillows and gold lamps

And she died in that same room

My 11 year old hand holding onto hers

because I thought I could keep her from leaving too soon

After she passed away,

they gave me the organ

because I was the only one who played it

and I remember figuring out songs by ear

and playing them with such pride

But a girl playing Enya songs is not something people want to hear

I picked up a guitar when I was 12 years old

because it was thrust at me

to get me out of my brother's room

as he was sweet talking some girl 

I just went in the living room

and marveled at the portability

My father and brother both played guitar

But I was always keys

And something appealed to me

about the noise you could make 

with these sideways strings

No one really taught me how to play

I had access to books, but

I taught myself what I wanted

Like I taught myself harmonica

and drums

and keyboards

I just ate music up like I was starving

Like I had some internal battery that needed charging

I started recording my singing 

when I was just a kid in elementary school

I had a one speaker, hot pink radio

with a cassette player

I took a black Sharpie and turned it black

because I hated pink

No matter how much 

My mother kept buying it for me

My dad showed me how to record over tapes

so I started recording my own voice 

I did the same in high school:

Bought a 4-track player and recorded my music

So I could hear how I sounded

Simply astounded at the ease of creativity 

By that point, I had written poetry for years

and learned how to fit the stanzas in between chords

So I could sing my emotions out

I had so much stuck in my chest

that needed to be free

Music gave that to me

So approaching my late teens

I was a music making machine

It didn't matter if I was good

I was productive 

Music was a release 

And I had so many things

I needed to understand about myself

I have always preferred an empty room

Filled with instruments and paper

Recording equipment and microphones

Weed And privacy 

Because I do better when I create alone

For years, I flourished this way

Creating music and poems

Multiplying my collection every day

I look back at that time and I get sad

Because I am not that girl anymore

I stopped playing everything about 9 years ago

Cancer took my father, too

And much like 11 year old me, 

I held his hand all the way to the end

Hoping he would stay

But as an adult, I knew

Dad was so very proud of me

He shone with pride like he was my sun

Every time I would visit home, 

We would sit and talk about music school

I would share what I had learned

and he would teach me more

From the broken in couches 

He inherited when my grandmother died

We would trade music 

Looking back, he was my first musical mentor

And the gigantic space he left cannot be ignored

It didn't matter to him that I wasn't famous

It didn't matter that I wasn't touring the country

Or that I wasn't teaching music to students

He was just so proud I was doing something towards my passion

He knew I could do whatever I put my mind towards

Because he taught me to have an iron will 

And he taught me to do it humbly 

After he died, 

I really tried

Over and over again 

I would sit at my organ

Or sit with my guitar

But I wouldn't get far

I couldn't shake the feeling that he was standing there

Beaming with pride, as though to say, 

"Go on girl. Play for the world."

And it made me so incredibly sad

So much more than mere words can convey 

I also felt like

When he died, 

His ghost went into my strings

And every time I play, 

He's there, smiling. 

Now I have stage fright with ghosts

And that's so hard to explain to people,

given my outgoing personality 

What strange feelings Death brings