I crossed the room and sat beside her. She turned the guitar toward me, guided it into my hands and I played for an hour. When I tried to give it back, she wouldn’t take it.
“Keep it.”
I shook my head. “No.”
“It’s yours.” She gripped my wrist. “Don’t let it sit idle.”
I haven’t. Not once. Even on days after she died when I couldn’t bear to touch it, I did. My hand moves across the body now, tracing the marks she left behind, tracing where the wood gave over time. Nothing about it feels worn out.
It’s been lovingly used. There’s a difference.
Fucking cancer. It took more than her life, an unbearable loss. She was my best friend. Greatest cheerleader. Biggest fan.
One terminal diagnosis and our support system disappeared. Treatment wiped out her life savings. She had to sell the house and most of her possessions to ensure I wasn’t saddled with medical debt when she passed. There was just enough left over to keep me going for a few months, but it’s mostly gone now.
I play again, slower this time, letting the rhythm settle deeper before building on it. Eventually, I rest my palm lightly over the strings, cutting the sound. For a second, I sit there with it, quiet.
My mother didn’t give me this so I could keep it safe. She gave it to me so I’d play it.
My thumb finds the worn spot again. I tap it once, then start back in, stronger this time, no hesitation, no holding back. The groove stays steady under everything else.
It always does.
I move into a progression I learned sitting across from her. My timing used to rush. She would stop me mid-strum, shake her head, send me back to the start.
“Again.” Always calm. Certain.
My fingers settle into the pattern without resistance now. The chord changes land where they should. I stop only when my phone buzzes against the cushion.
Lissa. My best friend who lives in Hawaii always checks to make sure I’ve gotten home safely after a shift.
“Girl, you won’t believe the night I had,” I blurt out, skipping formalities when I see her face fill my screen. Lissa’s been my rock since….well, forever. Even more so since Mom passed.
“What happened?” she asks.
I shift, keeping the guitar where it is. “Zane asked me to open.”
“For who?” Her eyes widen.
“Lake Lyon.” I bat my eyes at the screen and dive into the tale of my impromptu performance and how Zane promised more gigs at the club. “It was terrifying and amazing. Playing on a real stage for a crowd who loves music? Incomparable. It’s what I was born to do. For a minute, I forgot all about the mess I’m in.”
She beams at me. “I wish I could have been there, it sucks I live two thousand miles away. I’m sorry you’re struggling.”
“Yeah, I’m in my destitute era, big time. Rent’s due, and I’m short. Like, ‘eating-ramen-once-per-day’ short. Bartending and street performing don’t cover my basic bills. Seattle’s so crazy expensive.”
The weight of adulting presses down hard on my shoulders.
I can practically hear Lissa’s brain ticking. “Okay, so here’s the short-term plan. This week, you’re gonna busk during every open spot you can slip into. Milk it and then some. Secure your bread.”
Huh. It’s simple, but genius. I should have thought if it sooner, but I haven’t wanted to seem greedy. There’s a certain protocol to follow until you’ve paid your dues, which I have, so I’m already mentally scheduling myself. “You think it’ll work?”
“Absolutely.” Lissa’s confidence in me means everything. “You’re talented and people love you. Plus, it’s Seattle. Tourists eat an indie music vibe up with a spoon.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Also,” Lissa leans closer to the screen, “don’t sit around waiting for him to ask again. You go to Zane. Tell him you’re available and ready for any gigs he can give you.”
I hesitate. “You think I should?”
