Father’s Guitar
His guitar stands resplendent,
Statuesque. His muse – ethereal,
awaiting him to place it into its tomb-like case.
He strokes it with long, practised fingers,
caressing the taut strings.
I watch as he takes the instrument into his arms,
gently placing it into the case lined with purple velvet,
as one would place a newborn,
holding the back of the spine until last.
Clicking silver clasps shut, he leaves.
I crawl from my hiding place,
lying myself down on the cheap carpet beside it.
I am the same length exactly
as my rival.
I move close, closer still –
and, like osmosis,
try to absorb a piece of his affection.
Kate Jones ©
***
***Kate is a freelance writer based in the UK who writes articles, including regular contributions to online women’s magazine Skirt Collective, as well as publishing life writing and poetry both in print and online. She has a passion for flash fiction and short stories, and is usually found lurking around coffee shops, writing and listening to other people’s conversations. Jones has also become a regular contributor to Sick Lit Magazine, and is a 2016 nominee for the Pushcart Prize through Sick Lit Magazine.***
She blogs at www.writerinresidenceblog.wordpress.com.
Find Kate on Twitter at: https://twitter.com/katejonespp
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