Rated: E · Letter/Memo · Experience · #1023986
The little kid plays a one-string guitar.
|The scalding air of the Spanish country inundates me. In the warmth of the mild breeze's embrace, I wander down the street.|
Kids, lots of them, everywhere. Kicking around a soccer ball, tattered and torn -- their futures. Maybe one day some would make it big, maybe not. Most of them probably wouldn't. Lucky they don't know that, I guess.
Then I notice a kid, perched on a soiled step outside a decaying yellow-green door of an orange brick house. Vintage. Spanish.
The kid is playing a one-string guitar, the other five strings straying off the plugs in frayed directions. He plays the one note tune of the Hat Dance. Over, and over -- playing the one string guitar.
The guitar appears old, but rugged. A little Spanish boy's best friend. Inevitably, the strings will break, and new ones must be acquired. Regardless, this boy plays on, with the one string that is left. His face remains radiant; delighted that he still has one string to play a tune.
I squat by his side and observe. Sweat falls from his forehead, the humidity glazing his olive skin. In a dirty singlet and bluish shorts, he plays his guitar.
He doesn't care for my attention. He doesn't look up. He's fixated on his fingers; the last string. Such an incessant tune has never been so warming.
I let my eyes stray to the boys playing soccer in the street. Shrieking out in ecstasy; their feet brisk, quick. Their ball is collapsed, peeling and dirty; yet they play with such contentment and satisfaction. One of the boy's eyes meets mine.
His eyes are an ocean, reflecting his dreams.