You were a gift, and I was young,
and I didn’t pay you much heed until the world shut down.
I’ll never know what possessed me that day,
to pick you up and sit on my parents’ bed and write
a story in rhyme about the crushing weight of fame.
The crushing weight of fame! And I wasn’t even on that path yet.
One song led to another, and another,
and you were always there, as I took lessons, as I taught myself,
as I learned the barre chords that were so hard at first,
as we became a team
and you became my destiny.
Our greatest moment will always be that road trip,
2022, Mom was driving, you were in the backseat,
thirteen states, dozens of cities,
seven nights, five songs,
a record we didn’t break until last November.
Then we made the trip together,
down I-65 to Nashville,
where people like me take things like you
to fly or fall in front of the world.
I wondered many nights
if there were more like me or like you in this city.
I think you:
strings are replaceable,
dreams aren’t,
no matter what the labels try to convince everyone.
Like Taylor Swift, you’ve soaked up my teardrops,
only I don’t cry about boys,
but about my own fears.
Will we make it? Are we good enough,
and if we are, will we have to lose everything on the way?
But I’ll have you. I’ll always have you,
and as long as I have you,
I have my songs, and maybe that’s enough.

When they announced the lockdown, I honestly thought it would last two weeks, three if things got intense. Just a weird little pause in the middle of freshman year, like the universe had hit “buffering” and would resume shortly. I packed a single duffel bag, told my roommate I’d be back before midterms, and took the train home to Indiana with the vague sense that I was forgetting something important (it ended up being my toothbrush).

The first week back felt like an unexpected snow day, and it was almost awesome to feel like a little kid again: I slept until noon, scrolled until my thumbs ached, baked banana bread like every other bored body in the country, and tried not to think about what was happening at the hospital down the road. My parents worked downstairs, their voices drifting through the vents like muffled radio chatter.

By the second week, though, the novelty had evaporated, and I was desperate for something, anything, to break the routine.

The house felt too small for three adults, and too big for me to still be a kid. I climbed the stairs to the attic on the Tuesday, dust floating in the sunlight like tiny drifting galaxies, ignoring the sharp stench of damp cardboard and old Christmas decorations. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for until I saw the case, black and scuffed, a little crooked on its hinge, 'PROPERTY OF: BROOKE' drawn across it in mock-graffiti style neon bubble letters.

My guitar.

The one I’d begged for at fifteen, convinced I’d become the next big thing. The one I’d played for a month before school, exams, and life swallowed my free time whole. I knelt beside it, brushing off a thin layer of dust. My fingers hesitated on the latch. Inside, the guitar looked smaller than I remembered. Or maybe I had grown. The wood was warm honey-brown, the strings slightly tarnished, the pick still tucked under the bridge where I’d left it years ago.

I lifted it gently, surprised by the weight. It settled against my body like it was always meant to.

In my childhood bedroom, sitting cross‑legged on the carpet, I felt something I hadn’t felt in weeks. I strummed once. The sound was awful: flat, buzzing, the musical equivalent of a limp handshake. I winced, then laughed, the sound startling the quiet room.

“Okay,” I whispered to the guitar, as if it could hear me. “Let’s try that again.”

My fingertips burned, soft from years of neglect, but I remembered more than I expected. Hours passed by quietly, only catching my attention when the sun dipped low, painting the walls gold.