The sun was hot on my neck as I got out of the truck. The end of a long Wyoming workday in June seemed about like always, high thin clouds laughed at the thought of rain as a hot sun beat on my dads trailer house.
Looking at the big cottonwoods over the old trailer, I walked into the welcome shade they cast before pausing on the wooden porch. I hadn't heard it first, the swamp cooler that was a must on days like this running in the background. But the smell had damn sure caught me offguard.
Who the hell could be smoking weed in my dads house?
Then I heard the guitar. A sound I would never fail to recognize, dads old guitar. It was a thing I had grown into adulthood with, summer evenings and dads music. It never seemed to change much, kind of like the old man had learned what he liked and stopped.
Some things shouldn't change perhaps.
It was also a sound I had given up on hearing since arthritis had taken its toll.
I had tried, my greatest hero being a guitarist had definitely lead me to take up the guitar, late perhaps but I had done it. One of the things I regret most I suppose is that when I had reached a level that would allow me to play music with my father, well, he no longer could.
So I stopped. I stopped stock still and looked at my father hunched over his gitfiddle as he sometimes called it Wrapped over her, slowly slowly pulling music from her.
Tears began to run down to the slow smile that hit my face, tears so bright I almost missed the source of the smell, a small roach lay cold in the ashtray...