While My Guitar Gently Weeps

When I was younger, and oh how I do mean younger…. Miami in the late 60’s, every rebellious wannabe hippie teenager had to play guitar and sing folk/protest songs. We would spend hours together with friends and unknowns singing and playing in the parks.  We thought we were protesting the war, singing for peace and seeding a new generation of love. It was such an exciting creative time!  That guitar defined us and who I was.   And then I was suddenly pulled back (via custody issues) to that small town I was so happy to escape several years before. It was traumatic on every level a 16-year-old could imagine. 

I am not certain what (if any small town gossip) had spread about why I left, but I can only imagine.  And at the risk of sounding like a worn-out version of Cinderella, there was indeed a wicked stepmother involved.  So, I can say without hesitation there were stories.  I would get hints and wisps of them now and again, where they came from will always be a mystery, but they were there.

My only friend was that guitar.  It was the only place that I could melt into happy times and Miami memories.  I would spend hours and hours alone in my room playing.  Remembering and longing to go back to where I felt I belonged.  I did not fit in where I was anymore, and I never would again.

A lifetime has come and gone, and the need to just be normal, just fit in is overwhelming at times, but my best friend is still here, maybe it is time I slip back into those happy times!...but it is going to take some work!  My memory stinks, my fingers are stiff and the callouses on the ends of my fingers are long gone.

"While My Guitar Gently Weeps"  The Beatles