I remember a February evening sitting on your dorm room’s twin bed in the dim nightlight glow, watching you across the way on the other, a bottle of strawberry wine on the floor between us. You held your Martin like a mom holding her youngest, softly moving up and down its fretboard like you were smoothing powder on its E-minor bottom. Your long hair fell across its body and you closed your eyes as if waiting for kisses in 3/4 time. I was like a poor father, bouncing my Sears Roebuck Silvertone upon my knee, a fractious child throttled to dissonant submission by my left hand. When you offered me your Martin, I cautiously strummed a G-chord and felt its gut-punch tone straight to my Svadhishthana chakra, another lesson about strumming you taught me that night. I experienced that same response from your goodbye kiss in May, when you said you’d never forget me, like I never forgot that F-chord you showed me where I wrapped my thumb around the low E string and left the high E open. Sad that I can’t remember its name. And oh so much sadder still, I can’t remember yours.
A rainy day bit of semi-fictional half-recollections. But then, most recollections of a guy like me these days could be semi-fictional.