He gave away his guitar when she died. Songs were nothing without his muse.
A season had passed still pondering what he missed the most, her or the guitar. He wandered aimlessly through the following year not knowing.
At a friend’s Christmas party, he sat brooding by the fireplace.
“Here,” the stranger said, handing him a guitar, “play us a tune, please.”
“It’s been so long,” he said, timidly thumbing the strings.
“Don’t you miss playing?” she said, the flames dancing in her lovely brown eyes.
“More than anything,” he smiled.
And then he knew. He had missed them both.
A season had passed still pondering what he missed the most, her or the guitar. He wandered aimlessly through the following year not knowing.
At a friend’s Christmas party, he sat brooding by the fireplace.
“Here,” the stranger said, handing him a guitar, “play us a tune, please.”
“It’s been so long,” he said, timidly thumbing the strings.
“Don’t you miss playing?” she said, the flames dancing in her lovely brown eyes.
“More than anything,” he smiled.
And then he knew. He had missed them both.
