She waits for me, like a collie by the door waits for his boy to come home. There is no reprimand if the days between now and the last time I opened her black case pile up. She is giddy to let the expectant sounds be released into the fertile air. 

What happens if I forget to sing? Does the music get stale, like bread on the counter? What keeps it on the edge of new, even when the song is one I have been rerunning since bell bottoms were in style? 

Guitars are unburdened by rules about market share. There seems to be no limit to how much music can be unleashed by her strings. Even if the D breaks, as it has done for me at inconvenient times, the melody can make do with five. Neither do guitars become vexed if more than one instrument is playing at once. The room does not suddenly feel overcrowded, nor one Yamaha's performance become diminished.

Can people do as much? Wait patiently for the chords to begin, without forgetting the words? Feel no jealousy for the violas and flutes, even if they seem closer to the conductor? Be submissive to the fingers that birth sound, yet responsive enough to vibrate with our whole being?