Connected Corners

Sunshine slides itself across my living room walls. Home alone, I watch it travel throughout the day. At two in the afternoon, it settles into the northeast corner, illuminating a green chair and an orange electric guitar. They stand proudly, bathed in golden light.

I came across the chair years ago, while looking for cheap, secondhand furniture for my empty apartment. I find a posting for an estate sale on the edge of town. Priced to sell, the ad reads. I borrow my mom's van and go check it out.

At the tall oak door, I'm met by a man and woman with tired blue eyes. They bring me into the house, leading me past gorgeous antique sofas, elegant handwoven rugs, pristine china. In the middle of the main room stands a moss-green chair, with high, regal arms and a tufted back. I ask how much it is. The siblings look at each other. The woman sighs. "That was one of her favourites."

I discover that these two are the son and daughter of a woman named Ester. This furniture, this house, used to be hers. She has recently passed, and her children are trying to sell her belongings. Grieving the loss of their mother, they are letting go of her worldly treasures, emptying the space she once lived in. They tell me that this was Ester's tea drinking chair, where she spent long afternoons reading by the window. There is a moment of silence. I give them cash. Ester's daughter helps me load the chair into the van, misty-eyed. I try to assure her that it will be well taken care of. I promise to treat Ester's chair like royalty. I bring it home and place it in the corner across from the window.

Reminiscing on this green throne, with the sun's volume on full blast, I pick up the creamsicle-orange electric guitar. It's a Danelectro, a Korean knockoff, made in the 90s. They used to sell these at Sears, cheap department store guitars made for beginners. It's not exactly a top tier instrument - it lacks the curvaceous grace that more expensive guitars possess. Blocky and retro-futuristic, it looks like something one of the Jetsons would noodle around on.

This guitar also came to me secondhand. One day, I see it listed on the local buy and sell, charming and quirky. I get the address and drive into the suburbs, pulling up to a little brick house encircled by pine trees. A middle aged couple greet me at the door. They invite me into their home, which is warm and bustling with activity. Their teenage son is watching hockey in the living room, cheering at the screen, while their two young girls sit on the floor colouring and laughing.

The husband brings out the guitar and passes it to me gently. He tells me his wife played this guitar for years, even toured across Canada with it. He and his wife are both music teachers, and had originally gotten the guitar from one of their first students - a plucky young girl named Lisa. They speak about Lisa with a twinkle in their eyes. She had adored this guitar, so much that she named it after herself. When her skill eventually outgrew it, she gave it to her teacher as a gift. As they talk about girl-Lisa, I start to see that guitar-Lisa may be hard for them to part with. I ask, "Are you sure you want to sell her?" They explain that they don't play it anymore, that it's not getting the attention it deserves. They want someone else to love Lisa the way they have.

As I test the neck, worn down by the fingers of women before me, I find that it fits perfectly in my small hands. The orange body nestles itself neatly into the crook of my arm, leans comfortably against my chest. As I play, the couple tells me stories; about their students, about being in a band together. They invite me to stay for supper. At the end of the night, these smiling strangers send me off with a piece of their personal history, a symbol of their love for music and their life together. They tell me to come back anytime. "We'd love to hear what you and Lisa make together."

Now, in my living room, embraced by Ester's chair, I cradle Lisa on my lap. The three of us work in harmony to fill the sun-drenched space with sound. We pour forth watery roars, like a pod of celebrating whales. High silvery trills emerge, birdlike and delicate. The low strings grumble, bass reverberating deep in my ribcage.

Sitting here, by myself but not alone, I dedicate this music to the kindness of strangers, and I thank them for their openness. I can feel the invisible lineage that connects us. Perched on this chair, I imagine all the times Ester rested here, drinking her tea. May she now rest in peace. I strum Lisa the guitar and think of Lisa the child, her tiny hands making friends with the fretboard, learning, experiencing the joy of creation. As I play, I hope that both of them, and those who love them, are happy in their own little corners of the world.