He sat on the stoop, guitar in hand.
It’d been a hard year, time slid like sand.
His life lay shattered at his feet. He could pick up the pieces and glue them together but he wasn’t sure it’d stick. He could throw them all in a pot – melt them, mix them – let them harden into something new, but he was afraid that he wouldn’t like the result.
After all, what did he know?
He knew this guitar. And he knew this stoop. And he knew music.
So he started to strum. Let the notes fall from his fingers, slide down his pant leg, drip to the life-fragments, and accumulate in a puddle around his Cat. boots.
He played the tension, pulled the music out of the strings, scrawled the notes on his heart, then laid them at his feet until the broken pieces dissolved into lines and bars.
He sits on the stoop, time slides like sand.
It’s a new year, he has it in hand.