Harana

I've been playing the guitar again. An ex-girlfriend taught me a few notes and a couple of songs on a red guitar that she bought for me on my 22nd birthday. Two years later, I buy a second guitar for my 24th birthday. Its sort of an ode to my lost love. Everytime I touch the strings I think of the woman who so patiently introduced and instructed me to the beautiful world of music. I can close my eyes and see her watching me ever so tenderly like a mother watching her child take his first steps. She would encourage me, and nurture me no matter how slow I would pick skills up. Painstakingly she would lift every finger and place them on the fret board until I could do it on my own. Secretly I hated it. I normally pick things up rather quickly and to be schooled like a retard was a bit of a blow to my pride. Having her take so much time and put so much effort and give so much praise turned me off to playing. Whenever I could I would stash the guitar in a closet and happily let it gather dust.
Two years later for reasons unknown I retraced my steps and picked up the guitar anew. Without anyone poking and prodding me to practice I've been learning chords, songs, and to some extent creating my own music. I find myself looking out into the distance as I pluck away at the strings knowing deep down inside that I need not look at my hand for my fingers will find their place on my guitar's neck. I can close my eyes and play and hear the love in each note. I can hear the frustration too. I can hear two years passed and an infinity in front of me. How beautiful is it to strike that chord?
Lately, since I'm trying to sleep when the rest of the world does; I've been sitting out on my stoop in downtown Jersey City at around 2am or later just strumming my guitar. I look up at the night and listen as the sound of Isabel (That's what I've christened my guitar) floods the silence much like stars drown out the darkness. The sound of her voice brings me peace. The sound of Isabel puts me to sleep.
But in all honesty, as much as I play for myself I want to play for someone. I have a chest full of emotions and guitar that can sing of my wanting. Often I look across the street at the brownstone fronting mine. Up on the third floor is a light that stays on when all have turned out.

I imagine my Rapunzel is there and the sound of my strumming is the call to her freedom. I play for that light, for the idea of a woman, that can hear my heartbeat in the chords that I strum. I imagine that she can hear each note, loud but hollow, needing just a little more warmth. I seek a woman that can inspire me to make music and not just play a series of chords in longing.

Can she hear it? Whoever she is, can she hear me? One day that light will go out, but the door will open and I'll find out that she's been listening to the sound of my loneliness all along. And when that happens my calloused fingertips will reach out and know the softness of her flesh from the cold cutting strings of my Isabel.