He cleaned it regularly, returned it to its stand, and worried about tiny scratches I could barely notice.
The same boy who abandoned wet towels on his bed handled that guitar like a museum curator.
Music drifted from his bedroom every afternoon.
Sometimes an entire song. Other times, three measures repeated so often I learned them better than their composer.
I occasionally complained, since motherhood apparently requires asking for silence from the very things you once hoped your child would love.
But I enjoyed hearing him play.
That afternoon, his room seemed oddly ordinary without the guitar. Just a desk, bed, and scattered school papers. Something deeply meaningful to him was gone.
When Alejandro returned home, I waited until he’d put down his backpack.
“Sweetheart, where’s your guitar?”
He lowered his gaze.
