The Lap Harp

In memory of Margaret MacArthur

Magic cradled it, a thing so oldit must have crumbled without a spellagainst time and forgetfulness. But being heldby thick vines to that barn walla century—we think it was that long—hanging there both buried and protectedbefore Margaret found and brought it down—was its salvation (that and being unstrung).She treated it gently as a bird neglected,fallen from its nest, cheeping and alone.

If the measure of value, as many think, is use,it wasn't valued. Only the yearhung with it on that nail and held it close.All the same it was made with craft and care,not in an offhand way, to bea working miniature harp and please a wifeor help a daughter toward her marriage bedby letting some pleasure, like sunlight, into the day.Then, when wife died or daughter was married off,it was put outside, like all things old and sad.

To know it might still perform took an eye and eartrained at country porches and kitchen stoves,a woman who spent much of her time each yearhunting old songs, forgotten like long-ago loves.It took respect too to bring it downoff the weathered wall in one piece,patiently oil up the old dry wood,add new strings, and woo the sleeping soundout of its hiding place: to releaseall this from a century's silent hold.

Tension is innate in woods like these,growing up through roots and fruits to pits.Before they were shaped, these boards were trees,walnut and cherry, natural opposites.One flowers early and bears fruit in Junewhen birds come to peck the glowing red.The other's fruit in late September fallsto lie like spheres of lime buried half-seenin grass, not even good for squirrel foodthough people once made boot dye from the balls.

Lopped of limbs, with neither twigs nor buds,forever severed from their living parts,these pieces became anonymous boardsjoined to the realm of mechanical artsand of course each other, bent and cut,glued and polished to a sheen by fineand ever finer grains of sand. When donethe cherry finally clung to walnut,top wedded side along a lineall but invisible, so they seem one.

In this way they rose again, as could never bein the long-gone orchard, where winds bowed them down,where woodpecker, nuthatch, wren, and chickadeeclaimed them as territory, staking out their ownwith bright punctuation marks of sound.Now together, dark and bright woods sing,deep brown and glowing red make alchemy,as holding them on her lap, Margaret will bend,her fingers plucking each fine-drawn string,her voice joining in their harmony.