Grandpa’s Harmony

Grandpas Harmony SM1

Grandpa’s Harmony

by  Sahana N., 15

A December 2024 Monthly Story Challenge Winner 

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For most 5th graders, the last day of school is one of emancipation. But for me, it was a day I dreaded for one reason. Our school’s annual field trip to Pier 39 in San Francisco.

After an insufferable 2-hour bus ride, filled with typical elementary school atrocities, we had finally reached our destination. My classmates bolted from the bus like freed beasts, but I lagged behind, assessing my surroundings. Wandering tourists covered every inch of the cluttered pier and wafting scents of baked delights tempted me closer, vying for my attention with the calls of insistent street vendors.

Yet, despite the abundance of liveliness, I felt strangely secluded. Friends and families passed through me, their fondness and laughter seeming to mock my miserable solitude. As I weaved through the crowd with the accustomed feeling of isolation brewing in my stomach, a familiar music found its way to my ears, though barely audible. Immediately, I eagerly scanned the setting to find the sound’s origin; two teenage boys, strumming guitars in the street corner.

Unconsciously drifting closer, I felt the music invigorate my body with a nostalgic sensation. Suddenly I was back in my grandfather’s arms, plucking the guitar, as he sang lyrics I knew by heart. Oblivious to the racket around me, I heard Grandpa’s melodious voice in rhythm with the live music, their union blanketing me with a warm tingle. The song dwindled to silence after an eternity, but instead of the audience’s thunderous applause that followed, lingering acoustic echoes sounded in my ears.

Staring forward, I remained transfixed at the glossy wooden instrument cradled in the musician’s arms. Unable to resist its promising beckoning, I moved forward, yearning for the guitar’s familiar feeling to envelop me once more and never let go. As I struggled to push through the crowd, my hands started to tingle with excitement, waiting to brush the nylon strings as they had done countless times before.

However, just as I neared the musicians, the guitar a mere touch away, an invisible force shattered my daze. Replacing the soft melody, a deafening roar of questions pounded in my mind. Did I even realize what I was about to do? Was I about to play in front of this crowd? Could I really earn their appreciation, their acceptance?

You cannot, a raspy voice whispered. This world that deems you an outsider will crush you under its expectations, it warned me. The world is not like your grandpa, nor the guitar. It will never accept you. The voice started to grow louder, drowning out every other sound.

I squeezed my eyes shut and frantically searched for an escape, just something pierced through the frenzy. “Sahana,” my grandfather called soothingly. “Listen to your heart, to the music. If you let the guitar guide you, the world will bend to its magic.”

At the sound of my grandpa’s words and the glistening guitar, my fears started to dissipate, and I felt a newfound determination coursing through my veins. Heart pounding in my ears, I hollered through the clamor, “Hi! Over here!”

Astonishingly, one of the musicians heard my call, casting a look in my direction. “Hey, what’s your name?” he asked as he sauntered over, even the simple question sounding like a melody.

“I’m … Sahana,” I stuttered, tensing despite his kind demeanor. Before I could hesitate again, I belted out the next words in a flurry. “I want to play the guitar. Can I play your next song?”

At my request, the other musician, who had been silently watching until then, jumped into action. “Umm … this isn’t for kids. Next time?” he suggested, flashing an apologetic smile.

Upon hearing the words of rejection, I started to turn away with burning tears, chiding my foolishness, but then I felt a smooth object pushed into my hands.

“It’s our last song anyway, you can play,” the first musician offered.

“Really?” I gasped, his words barely registering as I stared, smitten, at the guitar.

“Really,” he responded with a wink.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he then announced through the mike, commanding silence. “For our last song, please welcome Sahana!”

Pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming, I surveyed the crowd before me, which seemed larger than I had thought. A sea of faces stared back at me, some curious and others amused. Standing frozen, I felt the expectant look of the guitarist on me, but invisible hands constricted my body.

As I looked down at the instrument in my hands, it suddenly felt alien, not fitting the curves of my fingers like it was supposed to. This was not the guitar I knew, not the one that Grandpa sang to. This was something else, something that didn’t belong to me … something that I didn’t belong to. Horrified, I stepped back, looking around frantically for the nearest escape route.

Just as I spied a small opening, a warm hand laid on my shoulder.

“Hey,” the musician’s voice whispered, blanketing me with warmth. “Don’t be scared, just play.”

Nervously I looked at his smiling expression, free of judgment.

“Sing, sing,” the crowd started to bellow, stomping their feet.

Staring at the impatient faces that looked ready to pounce on me, I recalled my grandfather one more time and breathed deeply. Straightening my posture, I rested the guitar across my body and pulled a single string. The echo stilled the crowd.

My fingers flitted across the deepest chords of the guitar, their sound vibrating ominously. Clearing my throat, I sang out, loud and deep.

“Oh, we're dancing in heaven,”

Not letting the crowd’s silence hinder me, I pulled a higher string next.

“Lost in your eyes …“ I crooned, my voice treble.

“We're dancing in heaven!“ a voice beside me started to sing.

A smile creeping onto my face, I continued, “For my every heartbeat …“

“We’re dancing in heaven!“ the guitarist finished.

With the highest pitch I could manage, I sang at the top of my voice, the musician completing the chorus with equal energy. As we performed in harmony, each note and chord growing higher until they could no more, the last lyric flew out of my lips with a flair, “We’re dancing in heaven!”

Slowly I opened my eyes to pin-drop silence. A sea of confused faces stared back at me, unable to identify the lyrics that hung in the air. Because in fact, this song didn’t belong to any top charts or billboards, it was my grandfather’s. As I looked straight at the disappointed crowd, wishing desperately to disappear, I heard a slow clap beside me.

Disbelieving, I turned to my side and saw an elderly man with shining eyes. His hands clapped vigorously as he smiled reassuringly back at me.

“Grandpa …?” I whispered, frozen in shock.

I stepped forward gingerly, but immediately, Grandpa vanished, and in his place, stood the guitarist. Lips stretched wide, he started to clap louder, encouraging the reluctant crowd to join in. But even as the appreciative sound rang in my ears,  I couldn't take my eyes off his blue eyes which were alive with energy. With joy. Joy that I had given him, that my guitar had given him. That Grandpa’s harmony had given him.



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