Soft cushion sunk beneath the weight of my feet as I stuck my landing on the blue suede sofa. I took off once again, soaring straight into the air. My feet swung about while I slammed down the strings of my electric air guitar. Around me, music danced. Though this was not a waltz, nor anything you could find in a ballroom. It was more along the lines of a mosh pit. Crazed, sporadic movements. Heads whipping. Fists pumping. Across the room from me was my father. In this memory, he is still a young man. His face glowed with light and enthusiasm. He danced along with me as our imaginary instruments smashed against the ground in great triumph.

Our living room was a stage. Lights flashed in every color, and the pyrotechnics dominated the air. My Barbies, which were sporadically strewn across the floor, were our audience. They enthusiastically cheered us on. Some even had shaved heads; true rockers.

The mornings of my childhood always began with the sound of Q104.3, my dad’s favorite radio station. My eyes creaked open to the pounding of drum lines. My father insisted on blasting “Breakfast with the Beatles” and “Let the Led Out”. These radio segments were never to be missed in our household. He saw to this with great intent and determination; in fact, he gave more attention to the surround sound stereos than the taxes on our home. Though, where there were responsibilities and burdens, he always managed to keep the atmosphere bright. I dazily hummed along as Paul McCartney and Jimmy Page electrified my brain with guitar riffs.

Even when my dad moved out, the music still played. Now, instead of our blue sofa, it was the leather loveseat in his new apartment. The surround sound stereos transformed into a single speaker in his living room. Our audience were no longer barbies, but wacky neighbors from down the hall who could hear our grand concertos from 30 doors down. The maxed out bass that rocked our two bedroom apartment was in constant competition with our laughter.

When my dad made his inevitable migration to New York City, the music still played. Since he left in the 1980s, it was only a matter of time before he was back walking the gridlock of streets he admired deeply. Now, instead of being down the street, he was three stops away on the NJ transit. I boarded the train on my ventures to visit him and immediately reached for my headphones in an attempt to pretend this excess space did not exist. I drove them deep into my ear drums so that the music could be felt in the farthest reaches of my brain. Songs of a childhood that seemed gone too soon. Live versions, covers, and classics jumped around in my mind, traveling throughout every neural highway of my body. Soon, I was completely filled with vibrations of musical genius. The train hummed along, and the iron tracks were transformed into guitar strings.

By the end of highschool, my visits slowed and slowed until my time with my dad became limited to once every few months. And this was before a particularly long period of self isolation. Everyday was a struggle to fill vast amounts of free time, to distract myself from the loneliness that came with quarantine. I felt a disconnection from a part of myself. The same old songs lost their magic. I was constantly on the hunt for melodies to fill the gaping pit that occupied my chest. Then, like a grand symphony reaching its climax, I was found.

On a cold November day, mid quarantine number two, I made a rather impulsive decision. I hopped in my blue kia forte, which always had a tune going on the stereo. I decided not to overthink for once and just follow my intuition. It led me straight to Guitar Center. Here is where I picked up a cheap Yamaha guitar with nicks on the neck and body alike. The strings were old and worn, and it was sized for a child. It had character indeed, and I knew it would be mine. Music had always been my greatest vice, but it was this day that set a new tempo for the rest of my life.

After months of training my fingers to hold an F chord, and then to be able to seamlessly transition to an A minor or C, I found that my relationship with music had evolved. We had grown as close as I had grown far from my father. I was now able to create the melodies that once could only be reached with a spotify account and a deafening speaker. Now when I jumped up and slammed down on my guitar strings, they were no longer imaginary! When I heard songs I had known all my life, they sounded new. I listened intently, carefully picking out the chord progressions, deciphering if it was past my skill level. Each strum of my imperfect little guitar filled the empty space inside me with rhythm.

The last time I visited my dad, he looked old. Gray hairs had infiltrated his face, and he walked at an uncharacteristically slow pace. Time and space had their way with him. In his eyes, though, was the chipper young man who loved to jam to classic vinyl. I could recognize him as I eagerly recounted the progress I had made with my guitar, a barrier with music he had never crossed himself. The sounds of Chelsea whirled around us in perfect harmony, and we ascended into his antique apartment building. The elevator crescendoed up six floors. I stepped through the door to the smell of old cigars and laundry detergent, and my father uttered, “Alexa, play the Beatles.” The music still played.