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The Sound I Almost Forgot

For years, my bass lay next to me like an old loyal friend. Dust collected on its neck, strings went dull, and with every passing day, I convinced myself it was too late. That maybe I had missed my window.

But last month, something shifted.

I was walking past a little bar downtown—The Hollow Note. It was open mic night. I stood by the door, listening. The groove of a slap bass hit me like a memory I’d been suppressing. My fingers started twitching before I even realized. That night, I pulled my old Fender out of its case. I cleaned it, changed the strings, plugged in. It felt like home. Like a heartbeat I’d forgotten was mine.

I’ve spent the past four weeks practicing until my fingers ached. Muscle memory is a funny thing—my hands remembered what my mind had buried. I found the riffs I used to love, the funk lines that made my soul dance. I played until my neighbors banged on the walls.

It is time, I step out.

The lights shall hit me, the crowd shall clap. I would nod, plug in, count off. My fingers would slide into the first groove, and the amp hums alive. The room shall begins to sway.

And just like that, I’ll be back.

Not just playing. Living.