Teen Fiction: 'Guitar Dust'

07/21/2012 03:13 pm ET

This is a regular column featuring original poetry and fiction by and for teens, provided by Figment.com, an online community writing site for young people.

By Alejandra Tellez

The guitar in the corner of the room is as silent as it has ever been for years now. It has been more than three months that no one has played it, and no one will ever play it again. A layer of dust has formed all over it. I could dust it off, but somehow I feel unworthy of touching it, let alone picking it up. It had been such a big part of my child hood, hearing its amazing notes flow without hesitation, but only when held by the right hands did it sound as amazing as it could. I had always been afraid of it somehow. I still am a bit, since the sound was always strong yet comforting.

I can’t stop thinking about how I will never hear it again, how it would probably stay in that corner of the room for the rest of eternity. Sitting in the sofa facing the guitar I could almost see him, my dad, telling me that it was the second best thing in his life. I remember that moment so well, I was seven, I asked him, "What’s the first?" and he told me, "You."

It made me feel so special, being picked over an instrument that could make such wonderful music with just a bit of help from the man that was in front of me. When he was home, every waking minute there was music radiating from it. The music made me feel safe, like if there wasn’t anything else in the world but its amazing sounds. I stayed staring at the dust covered guitar remembering the last time I saw my dad; he was heading out once more. He was excited like always, he was always so proud to serving his country. He never complained, the only thing that he wouldn’t like was being away from mom and me.

If I had known that it was the last time I would see him, I would have never let him go, and I would have begged him not to leave. I would have told him that I didn’t want the guitar to stay in the corner collecting dust. He would have left anyways, I thought, he loved protecting his country, he used to say that he did it because he wanted me to be safe. The last time he played the guitar for me, he played “Patience” by Gun’s and Roses, our song. I remember him telling me that when he came back he was going to teach me how to play. He put the guitar there, were it stands this very moment, collecting dust.

“I miss you, daddy,” I said out loud, since I couldn’t hold it inside anymore. I was home alone; my mom was out, getting everything ready for the funeral. It was getting late; I stood up from the couch and headed to bed. Half way to my room, I turned around, picked up the guitar, and took it to my room. I wiped the dust off with a wet paper towel; it looked as if there had never had dust on it. It looked as if dad had never left.

I laid the guitar on my bed next to me. I slept with it by my side.

I felt that my Dad was close by that night, and I could almost hear him playing.

“I’m proud of you dad, you’re my hero,” I said the next day when I woke up, “and I promise you I will play your guitar for you now that you're gone.”

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