I have a beautiful black acoustic guitar in my room that I would love to learn to play with ease if I were brave enough to endure the calluses and pain. But the story behind the guitar is the real story. When I was just 12 years old, I saved up all my birthday money and bought my first acoustic guitar for $16. I became interested in playing guitar in church and on my own. I loved the Beatles and Simon and Garfunkel. I learned to play “Yesterday” and “Kum by Yah.” I paid for weekly lessons from one of the Christian Brothers at the church with my own allowance.
In the summer of 1971, I went to spend time with my mother, who was visiting from Miami. At the time, I was under the guardianship of my Great Aunt Mary, and my mother had visitation rights. I took my guitar with me to play for my mother. Aunt Mary had a bad dream and was reluctant to let me go, especially not wanting me to take my guitar. She knew how much it meant to me. I promised I would return, but I never did.
The guitar stayed with me through all my ordeals and bad decisions; even though I no longer played it, it held a meaning for me. When again, I was confronted with a very important decision to leave my Mother’s house and live on my own. I took my guitar with me; it was the only thing I cared about.
In a moment of weakness, I gave my guitar to my boyfriend at the time and regretted it ever since. 3 years ago, I bought the Black guitar that sits in my room. Someday, I’ll play it again, maybe when I’m 80!
GrowingOlderHopeWiser 
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