Finding the Pure Note

Leaving Only Broken Notes

"So...." Dad murmurs after a while. "How's school?"

"Dad!" I sigh, punching his shoulder. Softly, of course. "You mean since two days ago? It's Sunday."

"Sunday?" He glances up at the clock, looking more lost than I felt. "I could have sworn... Never mind."

I try and stumble out some conversation, but my words come out all jumbled: four different stories, started and stopped. Instead, I follow his eyes, follow them to the corner of the room I wanted so desperately to avoid.

Holding in a sigh, I turn around and pick up the guitar case. I lug the thing over to him and he takes it, opening the clasps and inspecting the wooden beast within, the lid blocking my view. I could peek around, but I don't want to. I feel like there's a dead rat, a malformed beast that I created by my stupidity. Don't make me relive that pain, please dad.

"It wasn't your fault," he says once he sees my sulking face. I huff but don't say anything. "I dropped it," he continues, closing the lid. "Me, not you, Clay. You couldn't have done anything." I close my eyes.

"It is my fault," I say darkly after a few seconds. "I didn't have a good grip on it... I panicked and didn't even try and grab it."

I catch dad's scowl out of the corner of my eye. Then his hand grips my wrist, and he pulls me over. His grip is weak on me, like a toddler trying to pull you in one direction, but even so, I can't fight this.

As our eyes meet, I see the tears glossing over his eyes, and I blink back a tear of my own.

"I don't mind," he says light-heartedly. "I don't mind. Really."

"You're just saying that," I mutter darkly.

"No. I'm not. It's just a crack. The guitar itself is still fine, still playable."

As if to prove his point, he flicks open the lid once more and strums his fingers across a few notes. It's a little out of tune since the fall, but he doesn't make a move to correct it. I wish he did. It just feels like the damage has broken the guitar's command over pure sound, leaving only broken notes in its wake.

Dad catches my cringing expression and moves his hand to my face, resting his palm against my cheek. His hand is still coarse, but warm, the cold seeping in after a few seconds, reality kicking in to remind me just how sick he really is. I take hold of it as if to recapture that warmth.

A tear marks a path down from my eye, hitting his palm, and he moves a finger to wipe my eye.

I squeeze my eyes shut. "I'm sorry," I whimper, my voice coming out pathetically, more a croak. "I'm sorry...."

"It's a memory," he says plainly, and I open my eyes, confused.

"What...?"

"The guitar's just that... a guitar. It's an instrument, a wooden box that plays the soul's notes. You can channel those notes through any old guitar, and that's just what this is. Sure I got it signed, but it's nothing really special. It works, and that's what matters."

I blink, considering that, but then I remember he still hasn't answered my question and I frown. "You said... Said it was a memory."

Dad coughs, groaning as he shifts in his spot, but then he forces a smile for me."The chip," he chuckles lightly, tapping at the base of the guitar, splintering it a little more. I gasp, but he only smiles. "it's a small thing; it won't break it. Whenever you play this, you can remember this chip as a memory of when your clumsy old dad dropped his oh so precious guitar."