Soft Whispers Like a Song

Some songs are sung for others. Some songs are sung for yourself. She sat by the window, cradling her guitar. Outside, white blossoms carpeted the ground beneath the Chinese scholar tree. Chord lay curled up on her lap. She gently plucked a string. Hmm The sound was soft. Like the wind. Like rain. Like the sound of the man who carried her up and down the stairs, panting, all those years ago.