🔴 WHY DID THE NEW PRIEST KEEP LOOKING AT MY DEAD HUSBAND’S GUITAR?
I nearly choked on the stale church coffee when Father Michael walked right up to it. The cherry-red gleam under the dim sanctuary lights felt too bright, too alive.
“Beautiful instrument,” he murmured, his fingers hovering just above the strings. It was still tuned to the last song David ever played, a song about coming home. The air was thick with the scent of incense and old wood, but I swear I could smell David’s cologne.
Then Father Michael looked up, right into my eyes, and said, “He wouldn’t want you to keep it locked away.” Locked away? Who told him that? He barely knew David! Why was he even here?
The organ shuddered to a halt, mid-hymn, and I saw my brother staring at us from the choir loft.
👇 Full story continued in the comments…
“…Locked away? Who told him that? He barely knew David! Why was he even here?”
The air seemed to crackle. Father Michael held my gaze, his expression gentle but firm. “Someone who loves you, and knew David loved his music,” he said softly, glancing towards the choir loft.
My brother, Mark, was already descending the steps, his face pale under the fluorescent lights. He reached us, his hand resting awkwardly on my shoulder. “I… I told him, Clara,” Mark mumbled, avoiding my eyes. “David talked to me about it, you know? A few weeks before…” He trailed off, the unspoken words hanging heavy.
My throat felt tight. “He talked to you? About the *guitar*?” This wasn’t about the guitar. It was about David’s last physical link to this world, and they were talking about giving it away, or… what?
“Not just the guitar,” Mark continued, his voice gaining a little strength. “He said… he said he didn’t want his music to die with him. He wanted it heard. Especially that last song. He called it his ‘legacy’.”
Father Michael nodded. “Mark explained. David felt music was meant to be shared. That locking away such a beautiful instrument, filled with his spirit, would be like burying his song along with him.” He gestured to the guitar. “He wanted it to sing again, Clara. For others.”
My eyes blurred. David’s legacy? A song about coming home? He’d played it the day before the accident. I thought it was just… a song. But if he’d talked about it, about wanting his music shared…
“He even said,” Mark added quietly, “that maybe… maybe someone else could learn to play it. Keep the song alive.”
The meaning hit me like a physical blow. It wasn’t about getting rid of David’s guitar. It was about letting David’s music, the part of him that still vibrated in those strings, continue. The thought of someone else’s hands on *his* guitar initially felt like a violation, but then I saw the hope in Father Michael’s eyes, the gentle understanding in Mark’s.
Keeping it locked away in its case, gathering dust in the silent house, *was* like burying it. Like burying that last song about coming home.
Tears tracked paths down my cheeks. “He… he really said that?”
Mark nodded, squeezing my shoulder. “Yeah, Clara. He really did.”
Father Michael knelt beside the guitar case, his fingers finally touching the cool, polished wood. “Perhaps,” he said, his voice kind, “the first step isn’t about someone else playing it. Perhaps the first step is just… opening the case. Letting it breathe.” He looked at me, a compassionate smile on his face. “When you’re ready.”
I looked at the cherry-red guitar, no longer just a painful reminder, but a vessel for David’s last, hopeful melody. It was still too soon to imagine anyone else playing it, or even playing it myself. But the idea of it not being locked away, of its song potentially finding its way out into the world again, felt like a tiny crack of light in the overwhelming darkness of grief. It was David, still finding a way to come home, not just to me, but through his music. And for the first time since he’d been gone, I felt a fragile possibility of breathing again.