To Unnamed:
stick-it-to-the-math’s letter to something simple.
It’s been a long time since we first met. I still can’t remember the precise date, or what store it was exactly, but I do remember seeing you there, on your display stand, and saying “That’ll do.” I wasn’t looking for anything fancy, just a replacement to get me through the loss of my former version of you. And you – you had all the basic things that I needed in something your type. Nothing too complex. Just right for a beginner and a casual enthusiast.
You were my 13th birthday present from my parents, if I’m not mistaken. But I wound up not using you for a long time. You sat against the long wall of the basement, your only company the power strip your existence was tied to. Oh, I eyed you, and considered using you every day, but something always made me stop. Perhaps it was my fear of not being good enough for you, or maybe I just didn’t know how to begin. But you rested there and collected dust for a few months, and I’m sorry I did that to you.
The date eludes me once again, but I did finally get up the courage to give you a go. I gathered my papers together and analyzed them thoroughly, and then – with just the right flourish – I did my best to do as the papers instructed. It came out horribly, to say the least, but behind the cacophony of failure was a sweet and charming sound, so familiar to the one that I had lost, yet with a different sort of pizzazz. I knew I had picked right that day – I knew you were the one I needed. And because of you, I never stopped trying.
So many times over these past five years, I’ve come across your cousins and relatives. They’re all very fancy – some with extra gizmos, a few even hand-crafted, and one or two a hundred or more years old – but none of them compare to you. I think, to be honest, I would have been outclassed by something too intense. I needed you and your simplicity. I needed to hear the sound, to not be caught up in the technicalities of making said sound. You gave me that basic level that I needed to grow and develop as – well – as a thinker and an artist. And I thank you for that.
It saddens me to think that after all of the times I’ve cried over you, that I’ve tried to fix my problems with you, that I’ve hurt you and punched you and yelled at you – that after all we’ve been through – I’ll have to replace you one day. With your guidance, you led me to a level of mastery that I would never have achieved alone, but that also means that I think I’ve outgrown you. Now, I need those other models, just so I can keep experimenting and learning more. But I won’t forget you. I won’t forget when I saw you in the store. I won’t forget the first time I got it right. I won’t forget how, in a strange way, you saved me.
Thank you.
