CHRISTIAN HURTADO
11th GRADE
A GUITAR’S FLAME
At the age of 11, I was introduced to a new standard of
living.
Into our local guitar center my father and
I went, both of us were looking for a new tool on our
musical paths. My father was looking for a mouthpiece
for his alto-sax and I was looking for my first guitar pick.
Up to the front desk I went, with a face full of confidence, a mask to cover my true identity. I was a new
guitar player, but I couldn’t show that. I spoke, my voice
overtaken by someone else, someone who knew what he
was doing.
“I need a guitar pick.”
“Lights, Mediums, or Heavies?” The man’s
voice was older and much wiser than mine. He probably
could see right through my disguised face. My tone of
voice wasn’t going to be enough to fool this guy. I had to
think of a way to answer his simple four-word question.
I chose mediums, not really knowing the difference
between the three but wanting to just go with what
sounded like the norm.
He handed me a little box, filled with guitar
picks of various colors. The only one that stood out from
the crowd was the orange pick, a flame amongst the rest.
The man looked suspicious and asked if I really wanted
to take it home, offering me others of its kind. I, still
wearing the mask of confidence, responded with a stern yes.
“That’ll be 35 cents.” I looked at the man in
astonishment. Could it really be purchased so cheaply?
Never had I seen something like it before. I handed him
the rusty quarter and shiny dime. Those measly 35 cents
spent that day would open the gates to a better path—
that path, responsibility.
HPAC Young Writers Review
I had a tendency to lose objects, whether big
or small. Whether it be my step-dad’s car keys or my
various cell phone chargers. That pick was the smallest
thing I owned besides the buttons on my shirts. I had
no intention of losing it. I kept it safe no matter what.
Whether taped to my Les Paul or jammed into my
wallet, that pick was going to stay close to me forever.
There were times when my irresponsibility
took over and you went missing.
I remember the day we went to the beach
and you went hiding in the sand. I couldn’t find you for
hours, your skin camouflaged with the sandy terrain,
your body challenging my eyes’ abilities. And as I spotted
you, I noticed that your body wasn’t the same as it was
the day I bought you. I knew it was time for you to stop,
to retire from work. It was my responsibility to not be so
careless with you now. I was not going to lose you again.
Your delicate body needed extreme care and could not be
exposed anymore.
I punctured a hole through your body and
through your heart a necklace went, the two textures
working seamle