Brother’s Guitar
My brother’s guitar is his voice when words fail. He strums softly in his room, chords weaving through walls. When our dog died, he played a song so sad it made the air ache, but also healing, like rain after drought. He taught me to play “Twinkle Twinkle,” his hands guiding mine over the strings. Now, when I’m angry, he hands me the guitar: “Play it out.” The guitar isn’t just wood and strings—it’s how he says “I love you” without speaking, how he turns pain into melody. In its notes, I hear his joy, his sorrow, his hope. And in the way he shares it with me, I feel the quiet bond of siblings who understand each other best through music.