uncle richard

The guitar.

A quiet corner

in a house full of merry holiday noise.

You, the patient teacher,

your wrinkled, veiny fingers

curling around the neck

and plucking out notes

one by one.

You were old then,

and I so young.

You're gone now,

a mere memory in so little time.

And that guitar sits

collecting dust in a quiet corner.

I've neglected it.

And now that you're gone,

I fear I'll forget all the notes,

I'll forget how to play

that familiar tune.

If it's true,

I'll have disappointment to add

to the sadness.

My Great Uncle Richard died yesterday. Among all my memories, my favorite was the one Christmas he taught me Ode to Joy on the guitar, and it remains the only thing I know how to play.

I dislike February so far.

Ever singing march we onward, victors in the midst of strife. Joyful music lifts us Son-ward in the triumph song of life...