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For The Strength of Youth

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Submitted by Steven ODell on 5 July 2007 - 4:10am. | | | | |

The Guitar—© Steven G. O'Dell July 2005

The music was unlike any she had ever heard. It grabbed her by the heartstrings and pulled her physically to itself. The otherworldly strains came softly from the inner recesses of the undistinguished and quaint little shop that she had nearly missed in her private rush down the narrow cobblestone street, but she now stood transfixed as the sultry tones of the simple acoustic guitar beckoned to her from the darkness beyond the door.

One step at a time, slowly she marched forward, led by the intoxicating siren sound of an unseen master. Gradually, as her eyes became accustomed to the dim lighting of the room, the form took shape of a seated man bent over a guitar. His eyes were tightly closed, as though in deep meditation and his head subtly bobbed and weaved to the emotional melodies that so fluidly poured forth. His behavior suggested that he did not just play the music, but that he also experienced it, lived in it fully and passionately.

His fingers were now gentle and quivering, then again swift and light and she knew that the music that so deeply stirred her did not come alone from the fingers and mind of the musician, but from the depths of his very soul. His roughly handsome face changed with each phrase; soaring, now weeping and then flights of ecstasy and beyond. Tears flowed easily from her as the melodies played about her heart and feelings. She felt nearly captive and helpless in the grip of this master musician.

As she watched his two hands orchestrate their dance around the instrument he held, it occurred to her that the device he so masterfully expressed himself upon bore strong resemblance to her own feminine shape. She blushed as a warmth surprisingly surged through her and she instinctively knew that such hands as could express themselves in this spirit-touching manner must also know their way around the body of such a woman as she--nay, even her very soul.

Now nearly breathless, she lifted her gaze from the interplay of man and instrument, the dance between fret and soundboard, mesmerized by the now open, dark and penetrating eyes that seemed to search her inner depths. The soft smile on his lips assured her that any fears were in vain and she began to willingly open her heart and mind to this heavenly symphony that she had nearly lost in her desire to hurry to nowhere important.



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