I paused at the doorway of the nursery. Lottie sat in the rocking chair, feeding Joshy, cooing at him as he stared up with his big blue eyes. He loved to eat, and his appetite was voracious. I set down a large glass of water beside her, stroked my son’s head, bent to kiss my wife, then settled on the floor. I reached for my guitar and strummed my fingers across the strings. At the sound, Joshy’s head turned.
“You know that sound, don’t you, my boy?” I murmured. They said it was too soon, but I had been playing and singing to him Lottie’s entire pregnancy. Like his mother, as soon as I sang, he relaxed. He knew music. He knew me. His eyes followed me in the nursery, and he reacted every time I picked up my guitar. I didn’t care what they said. I knew it in my heart.
“What were you working on earlier?” Lottie asked, lifting Joshy to her shoulder to burp him. Her ring caught the light as she stroked his back, following it up with gentle taps. “It sounded pretty.”
“A new one I wrote.”
“What’s it called?”
“Heart Strings.”
“I like that. What’s it about?”
I smiled and began to play. I sang softly about my family. Finding the music. The love they inspired. The way my heart had healed. The strings that stitched my heart back in place and held it firm. I wasn’t surprised to see Lottie’s tears. Mine were suspiciously close to the surface.
I finished, crossing my arms over my guitar and gazing at my wife. “That one is for you and Joshy. I’m not selling it.”
“You should. The world needs to hear those words.”
“They get enough. It’s for you. Only you.”
“Thank you.”
“Bobby and I will record it, but it will be private.”
She leaned forward, and our lips met over the guitar that brought her to me.
The one I played for her that helped heal her soul.
So she, in turn, could heal mine.
I sat back and gazed at the center of my world.
My wife, my son, my music.
My heart strings.
***