Work Text:
Standing alone by the frigid ocean, I stare out into the vast sea. There isn't much to look at; my orange hair keeps swaying in front of my vision, the freezing sun shone down too bright, every touch of the snowflakes burned, and the biting wind cut spikes into my skin. The heavy guitar on my back weighs down on me. Even though I've got a big winter jacket, a thick blue scarf, and soft gloves, nothing on me can clothe the pain that I feel in my heart. It feels raw. Like a fresh wound. Like the more you cover it, the more it hurts.
Nevertheless, I'm still drawn here. Every time I pass by the bitter blues of the water. Every time I feel the soft, jagged sand under my feet. Every time I hear the waves crashing upon the shore. It's like you're still calling me. The snow hasn't melted. And I'm unable to say goodbye.
—
Although the guitar case rests uncomfortably on my shoulders, I sit on an old branch — its bark eroded and peeling off — and let the white foam of the waters brush up against my feet. It's cold.
Yet, these frozen waters used to be an enveloping embrace. The hug of warmth, not coldness. Maybe the water had a greener tint to it. Its corners less sharp. More friendly. Like it reached out to us, grabbed our hands, and led us along. The seashells glinted brighter than the rocks. The auburn hue of the setting sun sweetened the sand and bedazzled the waves. The wind ran its fingers through our hair and the rays toned our skin. And you covered me in your jacket when I shivered. You bought me sandwiches when I was hungry. Put lotion on me when my face was dry from the salt. Rubbed sun cream onto my back. And serenaded me with the songs you wrote when I was tired and cried late at night. Sitting on this old branch, with your old guitar. Your lyrics treated me like medicine, and I was the patient of your words.
The water by my feet now is acting warm because it's only pretending to be nice. Pretending to comfort me. It still reaches out, but it's too far away for me to grasp.
—
Navy blue and hints of gold illuminated the sea. The wind was more serrated. The sand molded to my feet. I reach behind to take the weight off my shoulders, and slowly unzip the case. The cherry red Gibson guitar glowed under the moonlight. Your fingerprints are still all over it.
This was your existence and the unspoken burden that you used to carry. Its strings were plucked enthusiastically, but you hid your fingers that quietly built up those callouses. Callouses from your life. Callouses from your father. Callouses for me.
The weight of this guitar is just heavy enough that it isn’t noticed until the end of the day, when I lie in bed to wait for tomorrow. I'm waiting to wake from this dream and I'm waiting for you to come back. But this soreness is an underlying pain. It lied just beneath your skin, and regrettably, my words cut it open.
I pick up the guitar, but maybe I should put it back down. Maybe I shouldn't smudge your marks and maybe I shouldn't play the songs you taught me. Maybe it'll keep you in my thoughts a little longer and keep this snow from melting.
My left hand holds the neck of the guitar. My right fingers set on top of the strings. Then, I press on them. Just like the way you showed me. And I strummed.
And strummed.
La la la la la… ~ ~
The snow is melting. Can you hear it?