O Cello, goodbye.

I'll miss you, I know it.

Though I'm buying a new one, it won't have the same memories attached.

The memories attached to you will go someplace else. Someone else's hand will grip your neck. Another bow will dance across your strings.

Maybe that hand will feel the memories there. Maybe the fingers will fly faster and the bow will dance more gracefully. I hope so.

But I fear that it will never be. After all, I left more than memories with you.

I left you with a hole. Some unknown tragedy broke you. Was it me? In carelessness did I strike you with my foot?

I remember the day I looked underneath and saw it: an ugly, gaping series of cracks hidden just below your frame. I had no idea how long it had gone unseen.

I took you to the shop and they said you weren't worth repairing. They slapped some tape over your wound, assuming you would be alright for another couple years.

At first it was no matter. We went on making music. I took you to college with me. Some of our greatest memories were made, and your overtones still rang out, although a little weaker than before.

Eventually, however, a problem arose. This time it was not you. The hole hadn't gotten worse, but for some reason it was becoming harder for me to play.

"As you become a more advanced player, the limitations of your instrument become obvious," my teacher explained.

I knew, with those words, that your fate was sealed. What was I to do? Cripple myself, as I had already crippled you? No, if I was to continue developing my skill, I had to leave you behind.

I'm not a very sentimental person. It usually takes me years to miss something after getting rid of it, but now that I have finally purchased a new cello, I see that I will miss you right away. Every time I play I will think of you, at least at first.

Eventually, without your song to remind me – without your harmonics and overtones and that smooth feel of your polished wood under my fingertips, my only memory of you will be this brief farewell.

O Cello, goodbye.