Andrew and that old guitar.

It was black and shinny and when Andrew played it you would drift off to worlds far away. Once when he was playing, I could have sworn he was singing but he wasn’t. It was the sweet sound of that scratched up guitar. He bought it from a friend for 100 dollars. Bedsides his car it was the most expensive thing he’d ever bought. Andrew was missing the tip of one of his fingers. It made it harder for him to play but you wouldn’t have known it when you listened to him strum. He loved that guitar. It seemed to unlock the cosmos for both him and me, all kinds of emotions would pour from it. He even wrote a song about me. It was a song that he made up right then and there about the misunderstanding between a mother and a daughter. It was during that time in which he was going through a horrible divorce. His ex-wife told him that she wanted a separation, time to think things over, she didn’t know if she loved him anymore. And she didn’t she wanted out is what she really wanted to let the seeds of her fantasy to bloom. One-day a friend came and told him that she had been cheating so Andrew confronted her. It all got worse form there. His dreams of a family, playing catch with his son, taking his daughter to dance classes all were crushed and shattered. He knew he had to get out. When he left for California he left that guitar in the laundry room. I guess he wanted to just leave the tragedy of what his life had become behind, or perhaps it didn’t fit in his car.