By Cooper Heilmann, staff reporter
The old house by the strawberry gardens had its windows open. It used to be a beautiful house with brick walkways and gardens. But long had it been overgrown with ivy, long had it been forgotten. The house was dead. The gardens no longer flowered, smoke no longer rose from the chimney. Yet there was life in it still. From within, one could faintly make out the sound of song drifting out the broken windows. It was a sweet, sad song, an old song. Inside the house, an old man sat in a musty green lounge chair in front of a dead fire whose ashes had blown and scattered across the living room floor. The old man plucked the strings of an acoustic guitar. The strings had not been replaced in years, yet the guitar still played like no other. The old guitarist was bent over his instrument from years of doing nothing else but sitting and playing. His cracked voice hummed along with the song, an old song that had long lost its name and meaning. But this old man brought new life into it. This song was the last strand of his life, yet it played of the past and the present. There was no use for playing and singing of the future.
The old man was so caught up in his song that he barely even noticed the young boy who was trying to sneak closer to hear the song. His feet became entangled in the vines that entwined the brick and he stumbled, narrowly avoiding a fall on the broken glass outside the window. He crept to the windowsill and was immediately fascinated by the sight. The man had a bony figure and white, wispy hair that was once long and luscious. However, his eyes were crystal clear and as blue as the sky. The man played and played. The old man looked so lonely, and the boy wanted to cry out to him, to give him company, but he could not bring himself to do so. The boy did not know how long he stood there, listening.
Gradually, his music slowed down, becoming softer and softer. He ended on a note that was both low and high, plucking the top and bottom strings open. He looked up from his instrument and stared the little boy straight in the eye. The boy gasped. He had thought he was hidden. But the old man smiled weakly and laid his head back with a sigh. He died there with his guitar in his arms.
The boy never forgot that moment of his life. The sad song inspired him, and the old, yet piercing blue eyes haunted him forever.
The old man was so caught up in his song that he barely even noticed the young boy who was trying to sneak closer to hear the song. His feet became entangled in the vines that entwined the brick and he stumbled, narrowly avoiding a fall on the broken glass outside the window. He crept to the windowsill and was immediately fascinated by the sight. The man had a bony figure and white, wispy hair that was once long and luscious. However, his eyes were crystal clear and as blue as the sky. The man played and played. The old man looked so lonely, and the boy wanted to cry out to him, to give him company, but he could not bring himself to do so. The boy did not know how long he stood there, listening.
Gradually, his music slowed down, becoming softer and softer. He ended on a note that was both low and high, plucking the top and bottom strings open. He looked up from his instrument and stared the little boy straight in the eye. The boy gasped. He had thought he was hidden. But the old man smiled weakly and laid his head back with a sigh. He died there with his guitar in his arms.
The boy never forgot that moment of his life. The sad song inspired him, and the old, yet piercing blue eyes haunted him forever.
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