by Amanda Sledz
The stand is designed to clasp two guitars, one on either side. She cradles an Ovation in her arms, a guitar variety our high school friends used to call a soup bowl. In the stand is an acoustic-electric hybrid that I toyed with for ten minutes before my arthritic fingers found their voices and asked, “Why are you doing this to us?” This is not my native tongue. It's a language she learned from my father; when I listened to him, I only heard noise.
On a piece of paper she's mapping the placement of fingers to lines, six strings, four fingers, my thumb beside itself. A song comes alive at her hands, hands smaller than mine that can nevertheless stretch and reach G. I'm digging for a memory, but this isn't touching an old stone but creating a new one. “Heaven?” I ask, and she nods.
Her acoustic rendition is better; the words have a chance to discover themselves. She pushes Bryan Adams' gravel away and trades it in for glass. I can see right through her. And when she stops, she hands me the map plotting fingers to lines. All I can see are words, and her.
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A flash memoir about my older sister, a wicked guitar player.
This is awesome, Amanda! "This is not my native tongue." You know how to listen, and teach us to follow you.
*
This is excellent. A clear direct voice that is both present and absent at the same time. I look forward to reading more of your work. *
Envy and admiration well combined.
Some lovely imagery and phrases that really stand out. I'll have to read the story a few times though, as I am sure I'm missing something.
Moving.*
Reading this was a wonderful surprise for me this morning. I'm glad to be introduced to your work!
I like the slipperyness. Just when I'm getting something it slides away to something unexpected yet just as engaging, and then...again... *****
Mesmerizing tour de force of language. "*"
Lovely. The flow of it in particular.