I was young once. My hair was red, my face and arms freckled. I liked to play in the dirt, and I hated wearing skirts and dresses. I rode my bike without hands, even when turning to the next block.
I picked up my father's guitar -- the one he never learned to play -- and ran with it. I played, and played, listening to the music I loved and learning it so well I could play the songs I loved note-for-note. When I was still young, my parents seemed to understand that playing the guitar was important to my life, and bought me my own.
I still have that same guitar. He has been my constant friend, even when he collects dust in the corner of my room. I talk to him sometimes, apologizing for not checking in, not changing old strings, not honoring his place in my world. Every now and then, especially when my sons come to visit (amazing guitar players in their own right) we pull him out, dust him off, and see what the old man can still do.
He never disappoints.
