Gia Raquel

There is this moment

Of divine beauty bestowed upon ourselves

When you feel sleek wood

And thick strings beneath your fingers

You try to reconceive the tiny notes

Playing softly from one of your mother’s old records

Gentle turns into brash

And you taste that frustration growing in between your knuckles and nerves

You lack rhythm

But you’re bored and driven

And finally,

Finally,

You get it right.

Song has taken shape in your hands.

It is molded like your own adopted creation.

You run to your father’s room

He could hear her

See her,

Dancing in the midst of a faded Polaroid

To the early sound of sunrise and a crackling record being born.