They are the only ones who comprehend me. I am the only one who reconciles them. Six ringing strings with wound wires and chilled touch like ice. Six who sit suspended over a smooth wooden carcass. Six vulnerable strings waiting to be strummed. From the kitchen, Terri can hear them, but I just sit and dream of powerful chords to configure into emotions.
Their sound is moving. They send sweeping vibrations through the instrument. They tune high and they tune low and they drag the player beneath their metal fingers and fill the atmosphere with calming tones and never cease to amaze. This is how they speak.
Let one forget her reason for playing, they’d all ring like harps on a stage, each with their notes carrying the other. Speak, speak, speak they say when I play. They inspire.
When I am too upset and too mad to keep dreaming, when I am a mere pebble mixed with many stones, that is when I strum the strings. When there is too much weighing heavily on my mind. Six who exist without concern. Six who encourage and do not forget to encourage. Six whose only reason is to ring and ring.