◉ 020 | The Guitarist I Never Became

In primary school,

a guitar was my passion.

I religiously attended lessons

for quite a few years.

I even played

in a school ensemble.

A dozen of us,

more or less.

I was average at best.

We were practicing

for the school concert.

Two songs.

Love Me Tender

by Elvis.

Easy one.

And Bohemian Rhapsody

by Queen.

Not so easy.

The day before the concert,

we had dress rehearsal.

Love Me Tender went well.

Then, in the silent part of Rhapsody,

I played a squeaky note.

Caught in a landslide,

no escape from reality.

Looks from my peers

sent shivers down my spine.

Mamma mia.

A day later,

on concert day,

my self-esteem

was in my heels.

I survived.

But only just.

In secondary school,

I kept playing—

less and less.

Mostly with family,

friends,

singing along.

Loud. Drunk.

Time went on,

and my guitar in the corner

collected dust.

Years later,

I left for Australia.

Maja was packing a crate.

The crate

we packed our life into

and sent by sea.

1 metre wide.

1 metre deep.

And 2 metres high.

2-cubic metre box

dictated

what’s in,

what’s out.

Certainly,

not enough space

for the cheap

Muzička Naklada

guitar full of dust.

We left it behind.

Promised:

we’ll buy a better one

once we settle in.

It took me a decade.

For the last two years

a brand‑new Martin

waits in the corner,

arm’s length

from my desk.

Mostly collecting dust.

She isn’t waiting

for a concert.

She’s waiting

to make

some beautiful

squeaky notes.

By me.

For me.