The Promise of Music

The door cracked open, allowing light to flood the despondent closet for the first time in a very long while. The beams of natural light revealed the dust particles hanging in the air. It must be spring, why else would he be in here shuffling boxes of Christmas decorations around and riffling through boxes of old clothes, he had long since meant to donate. Instead of actually cleaning as tradition states, Mark was trying on the old clothes to see if they still fit, modeling his greatest hits from the early 2000’s for nobody at all, and smacking his old Gameboy with the palm of his hand in a vain attempt to get it to power on.

Forgotten item after forgotten item was pulled from the closet, briefly examined with mild interest and replaced in a more organized fashion. Lucky for Mark, most of his crap was packed away in nice square boxes, which made his game of closet Tetris all the simpler. That is until he retrieved a large bulky package from the very back of the closet with a huff. 

Pulling dust bunnies from the large item, he unzipped the case to reveal his brother’s old acoustic guitar. What was this doing in his closet? No matter, he set it aside, with a mental note to return the instrument to its owner at a later date and continued with the closet overhaul.

Sometime later, the young man found himself sitting bored on the couch, the spring cleaning was done, and to be honest it wasn’t actually spring yet, it was still early March, but clean is clean, right? With nothing better to do, Mark put on some music and let himself relax. The minutes gave way to the hour and a song by The Band came on, Mark allowed himself a small smile as his foot began to tap and his head began to bob. As the harmonies came up his hand raised gradually above his head with the scales in the song, punching his hand up higher and higher with each note, matching the octave of the singers’ voices. His head rolled from side to side with the rolling of the tune, and at the end of the song he let his head fall back over the arm of the couch and through lidded eyes saw the upside down image of his brother’s guitar case, which held the promise of his brother’s guitar and the promise of more music.

The man gave a tentative strum of the strings and grimaced, he was no musical protégé, but he was fairly certain the guitar was out of tune. How could it not be after collecting dust for so long in the back of his hallway cupboard. Mark didn’t let this discourage him however, instead he got to work, turning to the internet as so many do with their uncertainty, he learned how to tune an acoustic guitar with the guidance of an app on his phone. And voila, a half an hour later the guitar was tuned, and he was feeling more than a little proud of himself. Taking advantage of his newfound momentum to pursue the musical arts, Mark figured it best to continue, to learn as much as he could, as fast as he could, and for as long as he could.

Mark devoured all the information he could get his hands on, studying guitars like he was back in high school and his GPA depended on it. It was hard not to get bogged down in the information overload, there was so much to know, so much to learn. Playing a guitar wasn’t just about playing a guitar it was about strumming or picking, cords and frets and capos. He didn’t own a capo or a guitar pick or strap, so away he went with his bare hands, learning each of the cords, contorting his hands in uncomfortable and unfamiliar shapes to achieve the desire sound. By the time he realised how late it was his fingers ached, and he was almost sure they were on the verge of bleeding. So, exhausted Mark washed the smell of strings from his hands and turned in.

With nothing better to do, Mark poured himself into his guitar over the weeks that followes, there was no question now that the instrument belonged to him at this point, honestly his brother had neglected this guitar for years, so he could shove it for all Mark was concerned. Somewhere along the way he picked a song to teach himself, a nostalgic little tune, Flowers in Your Hair by The Lumineers. This song was the definition of short and sweet, many of the cords where the same and the whole thing only lasted just shy of two minutes. Gradually he learned the cords, and learned to hop from one to the other, where at first his fingers fumbled, they now glided effortlessly along the strings and down the frets, with music pouring forth in short bursts or in longer bursts. His nails where stubs and his fingertips at first raw and red from plucking the strings late into the night, where now calloused and tough. His hands did not tire so easily anymore, so he could play for longer, and the longer he played the better he got at his newfound interest. The first time he stumbled his way through the whole song he was even prouder of himself than when he had learned to tune the old guitar. Mark felt as if he had unlocked a whole world of musical knowledge and he wondered uselessly why he hadn’t done this sooner and where this passion had been hidden his whole life, all the basic questions really. Every day his hands grew stronger and the movements came more naturally, and every minute, every second that he played he felt his heart grow lighter and lighter. It was comparable to a drug, an awesomely, astounding drug.

He tapped his foot, 1, 2, 3 times, and began. Eyebrows drawn together in concentration, tongue pressed hard against his teeth, eyes locked on his finger picking at the strings one by one. And so it went, as he grew more comfortable his body betrayed him and his head was moving along with the music. It was almost as if he was nodding, his body encouraging him to continue. As the tempo rose, so too did his spirits, he was grinning now from ear to ear and he felt his heart shinning in his chest, so brightly he was sure it could be seen through his shirt. His foot was going, his head was going, his hands where going and his heart was soaring. And with the last note the feelings fell away with the music to reveal his heavy breathing and the smallest of smiles on his face.

The End