Fingertips - a Colton flashback
Another flashback that I had written for the Scavenger Hunt. This story actually flowed right out of me within an hour I'd say; it was right on the surface apparently. It's a bit poignant, but it has an uplifted feeling at the end. Kind of how I'm feeling today... sad, but with hope. :) I hope you enjoy this.
Colton stared at the guitar with hatred. It seemed as though the instrument was laughing back at him, with its mouth open and strings that looked like teeth. Remember who last touched me? it taunted. Remember who taught you how to play me?
So many times in the last year since the death of his family, Colton had taken the guitar up in his hands, swinging it high into the air above his head with every intent of smashing it against the floor . . .
But he couldn’t manage it. It meant too much to his father’s memory. It meant too much to him, despite the fact that he hated to admit it.
And so it sat in the corner of his bedroom, locked away in its case, covered by a sheet. Out of sight . . . but never out of mind. He hadn’t touched it in a year. His fingers had grown soft.
He grimaced now as he balanced it on his knee, the thought of actually playing something on it sending a knot into his stomach and pain into his throat. But he wouldn’t cry. Not in front of Grandmom. He knew it made her sad to see him upset.
Pretending he was wearing a ski mask to hide his thoughts, he wiped his face clean of emotion, locking the sadness away as it rocked through him. He smiled tightly back at the encouraging smile he saw on his grandmother’s face, and he twisted the tuning keys to tighten the strings.
Finding the chord was almost laughably simple. The bite of the strings as he gripped them against the frets reminded him of when he’d first learned to play.
“Ow,” he’d complained after the first hour’s lesson. “My fingers are warped, dad!”
His father had chuckled at him when he’d showed him the proof of his words. “They won’t stay that way, son,” he’d said, his deep southern voice resonating with humor. He held his left hand out so Colton could inspect his fingertips. “Look how hard my fingers are. Do you feel that?” Colton felt them, nodding. “That’s the mark of a good guitarist. Yours will get there someday, kiddo. Just keep at it.”
His hands were bigger now, and he could hold the chords just fine without slipping. But the strings were going to leave their mark, without a doubt. The thought of going through the blisters and cracked and bleeding fingers was enough to make him wince inwardly.
And then he remembered this was a one-time thing, only. Just for Grandmom. That was it. He wasn’t going to play again after this.
He concentrated, trying to remember the song he used to play with Dad. He gripped his father’s pick in his fingers, feeling that if he held on to it tight enough, it wouldn’t crack and break. It was brittle and old. He’d have to make a point of getting his own pick if he was going to continue playing; he wouldn’t want to break Dad’s.
But he wasn’t going to continue playing, he reminded himself. It hurt too much.
He started slow, his fingers finding the chords easily. C, G. C, G. 1 2 3, skip, 4 5 6. He picked his way up and down the eight strings, creating an arpeggio, and the sound vibrated inside the wood, making it hum against him. It was comforting - familiar. It made him miss his father so much he ached with it. He stopped playing for a moment, forcing his lips tighter so his chin wouldn’t wobble.
“Go on, Honey. You’ll remember it if you keep going,” Grandmom murmured to him. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears and she gripped a kerchief in her fingers.
Colton shook a flop of hair out of his eyes and sat closer to the edge of the couch, rebalancing the guitar on his knee. He started again. The notes were poignant, and slightly out of tune, but still beautiful to him.
Grandmom started singing in her fine soprano voice when she recognized the tune. It was Pappy’s favorite, and Dad’s, too. “. . . The minor fall, and the major lift. The baffled king composing Halleluiah . . .”
He played the whole song, and Grandmom sang every note. He finished the song with a slow pick up the chord, waving the neck of the guitar for a vibrato just like his dad used to do. It worked, and he felt a thrill shoot through him. That was fun.
But no, wait. It wasn’t. He wasn’t supposed to enjoy this without Dad being here. This was Dad’s thing. He didn’t deserve to be enjoying it without Dad here, too.
“Oh, Baby, that was beautiful,” his grandmother sighed, dabbing at the corner of her eyes with the kerchief. “You sure do have your daddy’s talent.”
As if independent from his body, his fingers slid into a new chord and he began another song - another one of Dad’s favorites. This was a strummed rhythm and he forgot to take his finger off the D-string on the first transition, but he kept going. He snugged the instrument up under his arm better so he could play easier.
Dad could never sing this song; his voice was too deep. But Colton’s fourteen year old voice was at the perfect stage to sing it - not a man’s voice yet - but low enough to be a tenor. He didn’t know all the words, but he knew the chorus:
“Country roads, take me home to the place I belong. West Virginia, Mountain Mama, take me home country roads.”
The last few chords were hard on his fingers, but he finished the song, feeling exhilarated by the music flowing from the instrument. He held it, cradled it, feeling the life it brought to him and to his hands.
It was a long moment before he finally spoke.
“My fingers are hurting, Grandmom, I can’t do anymore,” he said hoarsely.
She smiled at him, smoothing her skirt on her knees. He slowly placed the guitar back into its case, reverently, as if he’d disturbed the dirt on his parents’ graves.
His grandmother spoke softly. “That was some real good playin’ you did, Colton. I’m proud of you.”
He looked up at her, seeing how happy she was. Almost as if she felt a sense of peace having come from his playing. She hadn’t smiled like that in a long while.
“Will you keep playing?” she asked, watching him slowly buckle the clamps down on the case. He fingered the pick in his hands while he thought about his answer. He hadn’t counted on actually enjoying playing again when she’d begged him to pull out that guitar. He’d expected it to be hard - to make him angry again that his father, his mother, and his sister had all been taken from him so early. But all it had done was make him feel like himself again. And greedily, he wanted that.
“I’m going to need a new pick, I think,” he said, not looking at her. “I don’t want to break Daddy’s. It’s too old.”
“It’s a special pick, isn’t it, Honey,” she said kindly. He only nodded, still flipping it in his fingers. The fingertips of his left hand throbbed from their work.
“You know who gave him that pick?” she asked, standing up. He shook his head, and she cupped his chin in her soft hand. The gentle pressure forced his head up to look at her. She smiled wistfully. “Your momma.”
She left him with a pat on his shoulder and shuffled into the kitchen. He heard her moving dishes around, even though he knew she’d cleaned up after dinner hours before. She hummed softly from the other room, and he could feel the absolute happiness radiating from her even through the walls of the old house.
That night, when he placed the guitar back in its corner of his bedroom, he grabbed the sheet that had covered it. He hesitated with it in his hands, and then let it drop back to the floor, pooling in a heap, leaving his guitar case leaning against the wall. No longer buried.
Climbing into bed, he curled onto his side, letting the hot tears slide silently down his cheeks and onto his pillow. The night air that blew lightly through the screen in his window felt cool, and comforting, and safe. Forgiving. He dreamt of his father; watched him smile as he played more songs for him, feeling for the first time not pain when he remembered him, but love.
The next morning when he woke, a brand new pick sat on his bedside table, and the sheet that had been left on the floor in a heap had been folded and laid on his trunk in the opposite corner.
The sheet never covered his guitar again.
Colton stared at the guitar with hatred. It seemed as though the instrument was laughing back at him, with its mouth open and strings that looked like teeth. Remember who last touched me? it taunted. Remember who taught you how to play me?
So many times in the last year since the death of his family, Colton had taken the guitar up in his hands, swinging it high into the air above his head with every intent of smashing it against the floor . . .
But he couldn’t manage it. It meant too much to his father’s memory. It meant too much to him, despite the fact that he hated to admit it.
And so it sat in the corner of his bedroom, locked away in its case, covered by a sheet. Out of sight . . . but never out of mind. He hadn’t touched it in a year. His fingers had grown soft.
He grimaced now as he balanced it on his knee, the thought of actually playing something on it sending a knot into his stomach and pain into his throat. But he wouldn’t cry. Not in front of Grandmom. He knew it made her sad to see him upset.
Pretending he was wearing a ski mask to hide his thoughts, he wiped his face clean of emotion, locking the sadness away as it rocked through him. He smiled tightly back at the encouraging smile he saw on his grandmother’s face, and he twisted the tuning keys to tighten the strings.
Finding the chord was almost laughably simple. The bite of the strings as he gripped them against the frets reminded him of when he’d first learned to play.
“Ow,” he’d complained after the first hour’s lesson. “My fingers are warped, dad!”
His father had chuckled at him when he’d showed him the proof of his words. “They won’t stay that way, son,” he’d said, his deep southern voice resonating with humor. He held his left hand out so Colton could inspect his fingertips. “Look how hard my fingers are. Do you feel that?” Colton felt them, nodding. “That’s the mark of a good guitarist. Yours will get there someday, kiddo. Just keep at it.”
His hands were bigger now, and he could hold the chords just fine without slipping. But the strings were going to leave their mark, without a doubt. The thought of going through the blisters and cracked and bleeding fingers was enough to make him wince inwardly.
And then he remembered this was a one-time thing, only. Just for Grandmom. That was it. He wasn’t going to play again after this.
He concentrated, trying to remember the song he used to play with Dad. He gripped his father’s pick in his fingers, feeling that if he held on to it tight enough, it wouldn’t crack and break. It was brittle and old. He’d have to make a point of getting his own pick if he was going to continue playing; he wouldn’t want to break Dad’s.
But he wasn’t going to continue playing, he reminded himself. It hurt too much.
He started slow, his fingers finding the chords easily. C, G. C, G. 1 2 3, skip, 4 5 6. He picked his way up and down the eight strings, creating an arpeggio, and the sound vibrated inside the wood, making it hum against him. It was comforting - familiar. It made him miss his father so much he ached with it. He stopped playing for a moment, forcing his lips tighter so his chin wouldn’t wobble.
“Go on, Honey. You’ll remember it if you keep going,” Grandmom murmured to him. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears and she gripped a kerchief in her fingers.
Colton shook a flop of hair out of his eyes and sat closer to the edge of the couch, rebalancing the guitar on his knee. He started again. The notes were poignant, and slightly out of tune, but still beautiful to him.
Grandmom started singing in her fine soprano voice when she recognized the tune. It was Pappy’s favorite, and Dad’s, too. “. . . The minor fall, and the major lift. The baffled king composing Halleluiah . . .”
He played the whole song, and Grandmom sang every note. He finished the song with a slow pick up the chord, waving the neck of the guitar for a vibrato just like his dad used to do. It worked, and he felt a thrill shoot through him. That was fun.
But no, wait. It wasn’t. He wasn’t supposed to enjoy this without Dad being here. This was Dad’s thing. He didn’t deserve to be enjoying it without Dad here, too.
“Oh, Baby, that was beautiful,” his grandmother sighed, dabbing at the corner of her eyes with the kerchief. “You sure do have your daddy’s talent.”
As if independent from his body, his fingers slid into a new chord and he began another song - another one of Dad’s favorites. This was a strummed rhythm and he forgot to take his finger off the D-string on the first transition, but he kept going. He snugged the instrument up under his arm better so he could play easier.
Dad could never sing this song; his voice was too deep. But Colton’s fourteen year old voice was at the perfect stage to sing it - not a man’s voice yet - but low enough to be a tenor. He didn’t know all the words, but he knew the chorus:
“Country roads, take me home to the place I belong. West Virginia, Mountain Mama, take me home country roads.”
The last few chords were hard on his fingers, but he finished the song, feeling exhilarated by the music flowing from the instrument. He held it, cradled it, feeling the life it brought to him and to his hands.
It was a long moment before he finally spoke.
“My fingers are hurting, Grandmom, I can’t do anymore,” he said hoarsely.
She smiled at him, smoothing her skirt on her knees. He slowly placed the guitar back into its case, reverently, as if he’d disturbed the dirt on his parents’ graves.
His grandmother spoke softly. “That was some real good playin’ you did, Colton. I’m proud of you.”
He looked up at her, seeing how happy she was. Almost as if she felt a sense of peace having come from his playing. She hadn’t smiled like that in a long while.
“Will you keep playing?” she asked, watching him slowly buckle the clamps down on the case. He fingered the pick in his hands while he thought about his answer. He hadn’t counted on actually enjoying playing again when she’d begged him to pull out that guitar. He’d expected it to be hard - to make him angry again that his father, his mother, and his sister had all been taken from him so early. But all it had done was make him feel like himself again. And greedily, he wanted that.
“I’m going to need a new pick, I think,” he said, not looking at her. “I don’t want to break Daddy’s. It’s too old.”
“It’s a special pick, isn’t it, Honey,” she said kindly. He only nodded, still flipping it in his fingers. The fingertips of his left hand throbbed from their work.
“You know who gave him that pick?” she asked, standing up. He shook his head, and she cupped his chin in her soft hand. The gentle pressure forced his head up to look at her. She smiled wistfully. “Your momma.”
She left him with a pat on his shoulder and shuffled into the kitchen. He heard her moving dishes around, even though he knew she’d cleaned up after dinner hours before. She hummed softly from the other room, and he could feel the absolute happiness radiating from her even through the walls of the old house.
That night, when he placed the guitar back in its corner of his bedroom, he grabbed the sheet that had covered it. He hesitated with it in his hands, and then let it drop back to the floor, pooling in a heap, leaving his guitar case leaning against the wall. No longer buried.
Climbing into bed, he curled onto his side, letting the hot tears slide silently down his cheeks and onto his pillow. The night air that blew lightly through the screen in his window felt cool, and comforting, and safe. Forgiving. He dreamt of his father; watched him smile as he played more songs for him, feeling for the first time not pain when he remembered him, but love.
The next morning when he woke, a brand new pick sat on his bedside table, and the sheet that had been left on the floor in a heap had been folded and laid on his trunk in the opposite corner.
The sheet never covered his guitar again.