I am writing to say I am sorry.
I should not have stashed you in the trunk of my Jetta when I went to classes.
I should have stopped at home, which I technically, in a loose, cardinal-direction sense, passed on my way to NJIT, and stashed you in our warm, climate-controlled apartment.
Or, I should have left you in the safe, albeit slightly colder, confines of my lover’s home, where you would not have shivered to yourself in shrunken woe in the metal cage of my car.
All I have to convince you into proper tuning and back into your dark, smooth, mellow wood voice is a tilt of my head, the scrutiny of my ear, and the slight scrape of my finger callouses.
I will cradle you in my hands, and pamper your strings and pegs with the warmth from my palms.
Feel my apology--and look, I wipe you down and rosin you so lovingly!
Come back and sing with me, Best Beloved.