Part of the joy of playing an instrument is the relationship you have with it. Learning one is a gateway to others.
This week’s flash fiction prompt hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
“Pluck don’t strum. Glide with the bow, don’t scrape.”
My cello lessons maintain the same awkward rhythm; the teacher’s bellicose voice is unchanged.
While I torment her, I eye the guitar propped against the wall. I’ve made a mistake. I chose poorly. It isn’t about what your hear, it’s how you feel, the stirring of emotions. I don’t get it with the cello. The connection isn’t there. I’m agitated, detached.
My fingers want to dance on the strings and slide between the frets.
“Mum,” I say, as she drives me home. “I don’t want to do this any more.”