Maggie Huang (9) | STAFF REPORTER
“Follow your dreams,” they said.
“Live your best life,” they said.
It had been too long since I’d heard those words come out of a person who actually wanted to help me. Who would want to help just another homeless girl on the streets anyways? In this city, the amount of bloodshed would always be more significant than that of secrecy and power. The unspoken truth no one would accept. This was the city I lived in, the city I was born in, without choice, without a will, I guess it must have been destiny.
At least I was fortunate enough to have Rael, the most caring and sympathetic boy in the universe. Hah, no. Rael wasn’t a person, he wasn’t a friend, nor a memory. I liked to think of him as a companion, but most days, he would be hidden away from public view. That is how much I cared for him, though he will never know. Every day I would bring him down to the pearl statue in the town square, clean him up and turn his pegs. And carefully, always so carefully, making sure that no one was looking, I would put a small box in his case. He was made of wood, after all, the perfect material to store something, and innocent enough to be looked over.
When the clock struck twelve, I sat down on my bench and prepared for the showcase. This was my everyday schedule for the past 3 months, this was my life. Whenever I was ready, I began to play— slowly plucking a pattern of strings, slowly pouring my sound into the streets of the city. The clouds drifted apart the sky as music filled the air, sometimes revealing a pale golden sun. All sounds; roaring engines, squawking birds or distance chatter, were muted. In my ears, the only thing playing was my own sound, the purest of sounds. Occasionally, I would peer at the surroundings of the city, spending the least amount of time possible looking away from what I already had. That’s how we lose our special things; by always wanting more.
For a few days, people would toss me a coin, a dollar or two as they spent a quarter minute of their day watching me. I will never know how much they heard or how much they enjoyed my playing. The only thing I could do was hold him tighter when their dark, shiny eyes peered in my direction.
People say I’m weird when I refer to an object as “him”, and I understand that. It’s not like anyone knew how to communicate with other forms right? Right?
Oh well, he was a guitar after all.
