My son told me my banjo is possessed.
He is not sure whether it is malevolent.
Just it has a history we don’t know.

Someone else loved this instrument.
Someone else’s fingers caressed her.

And through the turns of fate.
They lost her.

Somehow, improbable, came to us.

We don’t know the exact story.
But I’ve heard similar ones before:

They needed the money?
They wanted an upgrade?
No longer could play?
No longer played?
It was an accessory in a murder?
It was a witness to someone’s tragedy?
It was stolen? And never recovered.
The owner died and the kids didn’t want it.

It is palpable in the way she sings.
In the weight resting in your lap.
like a small animal curled up for warmth.

I told him
I think all banjos are possessed by spirits.

Slaves come out of Africa.
To my ancestors poor digging dirt and rocks in the mountains.
Music the thing that kept them going.
Gathering on the porch on a hot summer afternoon
Sundays are for singing, girl!
Cold tea sweating glass.
As the work tried to crush their soul.
It just learned to roll .

I have declared this banjo summer.

This one is on my mom.

Thanks mom!

We are still getting acquainted.

May it be a long and loving relationship.

Not a tragedy.