Me and My Bachi

At four years old, that bachi seemed too big to do the things I dreamed. I’d aim for one and strike all three, then miss the next completely. My father never rushed the sound, he set my wrist and slowed me down. From four through six, one note at a time, his patience taught these hands to find. By six, my strikes were landing clean, the notes came closer to what I’d mean. But chords hid farther up the neck, just past where little hands could stretch. That smallest shamisen still felt wide, with stubborn strings on either side. From six through nine, I reached and strained, till tiny fingers found the line. Thank you, Father, for the bachi in my hand, for the patient little rhythms I was learning to understand. You gave me three strings and showed me where to begin, and stayed there beside me till I found the sound within. Me and my bachi, learning line by line, with your steady hand beside me, keeping both of us in time. From nine through sixteen, line by line, the same old passages kept in time. Again, again, from start to end, until my hands could comprehend. Each strike and slide, each bend and phrase, was worn in deep through practiced days. I played the lessons he had shown, but had not learned to make my own. Then came the boy I’d known for years, all country roads and Southern ears. A great big hillbilly, stubborn and tall, who knew country twang, but not mine at all. So I played it sharp, and I played it long, bent three strings till they felt like home. I may have forced the first refrain, but somewhere along the way, it stayed. Thank you, Father, for the bachi in my hand, for the patient little rhythms I had come to understand. You gave me three strings and a world I could share, and taught me how the old could find a welcome anywhere. Me and my bachi, carrying what you knew, into the life I was beginning, and the love that listened too. The years rolled on, and side by side, we brought our different roots inside. His mountain rhythm, my father’s art, met in the middle, heart to heart. In our little studio, we wrote our own, new songs from seeds that both had sown. No stage, no crowd, no grand design, just joy in making his roots meet mine. First it fought my little fingers, then it learned to follow through. Then it spoke the songs he taught me, then it helped me make them new. Through every room and every season, every rhythm I walked into, that bachi never left my hand, and every strike led back to you. Thank you, Father, for the bachi in my hand, for the patient little rhythms I was too young to understand. You gave me three strings and a place to begin, and every year since then, I’ve found more of myself within. Though you’re gone, what you gave me is still becoming more... finding voices, finding colors neither one of us foresaw.