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.

Like your sister Weaver, you were a Christmas present,
only we didn't buy you until May,
when I went to the music store with that boy I was dating then.
(Remember him? You would.)
You're darker in color than her,
brighter in sound,
and we accessorized you with a beautiful pink and black strap,
the better to show off for the audience.
Thursday after Thursday,
week after beer-cheesy week,
you helped me sing the songs I wrote.
You weren't Weaver's replacement,
no, you're her counterpart.
You're the extrovert, plugged into a speaker in a round,
she's the introvert, loud chords in a quiet room,
and one of those things is easier for me than the other,
so you cover my weaknesses well.
These days, I don't fear the stage anymore;
it's the place where I experience my highest highs.
My frights are offstage, before or after,
when I put the pick down and feel nervous about my future:
what will it hold?
Will I love it
like I hope I will,
and do I need it
like they say we must,
and does it matter whether we need it or not,
if we get there in the end?
On the stage, backing me up as I tell all my secrets,
you give me the courage I need
to face the rest of the world.