My father played guitar at night. Sometimes, I’d peek out my bedroom door to listen. He’d sit in an old velvet chair, his guitar like a broken lover in his arms. Strumming and picking until the nylon strings snapped. Until his fingertips bled. He had a voice like chocolate syrup, so sultry and smooth it was easy to crave, easy to get lost in a sugary high. Easy to forget the bark, the bite, my mother’s resentment, his indifference, the neglect.
My father played guitar on weekends. Sometimes, I was his audience. Sometimes, his many girlfriends were. He’d sing about old truths and new lies, lost in the tomorrow of yesterday. He’d sing about little white houses and harbors. About the end of the return of the long dark nights. He’d sing until his audience disappeared. Until his voice cracked or his eyes misted. He’d sing until there was no turning back.
My father used to play guitar. Now, his music gathers dust. Sometimes, I sit on my red velvet couch transported to the bedroom I’ve never really left. The cold smell of frost on its single-pane windows. A fresh coat of paint on its crumbling walls. I listen to his old recordings. The unmistakable crackle of the cassette tape. The squeak of a finger slide. The shiver of a fret buzz. I listen to his voice, a splash of sambuca in my cup of espresso. His words spike my heart. I listen until I can’t hear it beat.