The Guitar

He thought he had placed the dusty black case in the far corner of the closet, where no one would see it. But the grandkids, they get into everything, even by accident. The little one, the one that looked so much like her grandmother that it sometimes hurt to look at her, asked what it was, where it came from.

And so, he said, simply and sweetly, "That's my guitar."

He didn't tell her that, along with a small bag of clothing, the guitar was the only thing he brought with him to the city when he left his parents' farm at 17. He didn't tell her about how ridiculous he was, thinking that it would make him enough money to cover his rent.

He didn't tell her that, along with the two jobs, he played in dingy bars and dirty coffee houses just enough to to be able to take one college class at a time, occasionally with a little bit left over for replacement strings. He didn't tell her that it was how he met her grandmother, late one night, in one of those places, now long lost to time.

He didn't tell her how once the kids -- her father, her aunt -- came, he stopped playing out at all, and only occasionally took the guitar out of its case. And he certainly didn't tell her that, now with her grandmother gone and arthritis starting to kick in, he took the guitar out of the closet every once in a while and cried, a combination of sad tears over what was lost, and happy tears over so much gained.

He just said, simply and sweetly, "That's my guitar."

One of the boys came over and asked if he still played. "Not so much anymore," he said.

"Do you think you can teach me, Pop?"

He smiled, and opened the case.

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For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Allyson challenged me with "'That's what livin' in the city does, man. Stick your song in your throat.' -- George Carlin" and I challenged Tara Roberts with "'We don’t get angry because the glass is broken, we get angry because we thought the glass would never break.' -- Robina Courtin (Buddhist nun)."