Wheresoever you go, go with all your heart. (Confucius)
Kate sits on my bed with my guitar between her knees as I tell her the names for the strings: E, A, D, G, B, and E. Some of the strings are as much as a full step sharp. They need considerable adjustment. Pain has curtailed my playing for longer than I’d like to admit.
“One of the first things you are going to need is an electronic tuner,” I tell my granddaughter. On the bed isn’t the best place to play, but we aren’t going to get as far as a real song. Not yet. We’ll just see where the open chords are, and how they sound.
I hold my Big Baby Taylor for the first time in a long while. The weight feels precious in my lap and I realize I’ve missed her even if she hasn’t missed me. “This is what a minor chord sounds like and this is how a major chord sounds. They each have a different feel.”
Kate listens carefully and I realize that one chord is not enough to show a mood, just as a single word is never sufficient to give an adequate view of anything. I should have played at least a phrase or two. A first impression isn’t always accurate either. When one of my water exercise classes became aqua zumba, I thought, I dance like a cardboard cutout. I’ll never learn it. The class has ended now and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
“Taylor,” Kate says looking at my case. She’s a Taylor Swift fan and loves the song, “White Horse.” I hold my breath, unsure how much my nine-year-old granddaughter understands about romantic relationships. The love inherent in everyday giving seems sufficient for a girl who still treasures her American Girl dolls.
“Your turn.” I give her the guitar back. “This is an expensive instrument. But I trust you.”
Kate’s E-minor sounds amazingly crisp for a first-time try. She and I both smile. She talks about all the instruments she wants to play. And I encourage her.
“Not going to be easy,” I say hoping my smile hasn’t faded. “But it will be worth it.”
Kate may not be old enough to be in double-digits yet, but she’s seen the ups and downs of life already. One of her school mates died of cancer this summer. Another friend was disabled by a freak accident when she was three-years-old. Kate has volunteered at the Free Store. She knows designer clothes are not her natural right.
She has no idea how beautiful she really is.
“You play,” she says.
There isn’t much time before Daddy will be here so I show her a few chords: C, G, E, and F, using a variety of strums and picking patterns.
“That sounds pretty,” she says.
“You can do it, too. And more.”
Her long legs are tucked under her and I suspect her thoughts reach into possibilities. No, I can’t see her thoughts, only her expression and glistening eyes. I suspect she sees some day, far away. I see now, a fourth-grade-girl with the world ahead of her.
Wherever you go, go with all your heart, Kate. Go with all your heart.
terrypetersen 