𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 ⌖ 𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴

Lost and Found

"Tomorrow is promised to no one."
– Walter Payton
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Deadpanning over the pile of rocks marking his grave, I sweep stray tears aside with the calloused pad of my thumb. It's been days since Carl woke up and Otis took his place in heaven. I still hear Patricia's wails and snivelling. At the time, my gaze never left Shane. He stood there, detached from the world around him, clutching that old fool's gun and stuttering some tale about how he died.

Now, hollow to the bone, I stand before Otis's tomb, silently apologizing for all the jokes made at his expense. I remember how he graciously accepted my jests, always hugging his belly as he chortled, merely happy to be alive.

Suspicion gnaws at me. Something about Shane doesn't sit right, yet here I am, unable to voice my doubts or comprehend them, instead, mourning a good man. Otis was more than a friend; he was a friendly giant, existing as a comfort, even in the darkest periods. His laugh, a deep, joyful uproar is a far cry from the frigid, silent stones, situated before me.

Glum, I amble into the vacuous house, unsure of my purpose until a strum from a guitar shatters my daze. The untuned tremor vibrates through the ceiling, unmistakably coming from my room. Curiosity rouses me when I realize Carl must be using my guitar, and the familiar racket beckons me away from my melancholy.

I hike up the staircase, heels tapping against the old wood, heading for the open doorway. The planks' squeaking alerts Carl, and his amateur plucking ceases.

Standing at the entrance, I lean my hip on the door jamb, my collar shirt creasing as I fold my arms. I quirk a brow at the boy while his alarmed eyes rake over me. "What ya got there Cowboy?" I say with a jerk of my chin, gesturing to the conspicuous outline of a guitar underneath the bed sheets.

His face brightens momentarily at the nickname but pales just as quickly. "Nothing," he sputters, and I immediately release a laugh. Carl's act instantly breaks and he slumps defeatedly. "Sorry," he mumbles, embarrassed. I disagree with a shake of my head.

"By all means," I raise my hands, disentangling them to shoo the notion that he's forbidden to play, "Go for it." I cross my arms again, smirking, and he hesitantly tows my burgundy instrument from its hideaway.

He pulls it on his lap, to his bare chest, and I resist a grimace when I spy his bandage. After a short delay, he finally glides his petite fingers down the base of the guitar, clumsily jiggling the strings, evoking a grating noise. We both wince at the clang. His face scrunches up in frustration before his eyes drift to my bemused one. Incapable of holding it in any longer, my simmering laughter bursts. Carl's tense body eases and joins in, and our collective giggles are a much-needed release.

I shake my head, snorting. "You're missing the most important step," I express while slowly approaching him. "May I?" Asking politely, I extend my hands to him, offering assistance with a warm smile. Carl hesitates for a moment before delivering the guitar to me, his timid face showing a mixture of trust and interest.

I methodically position the six-string against my torso. Capturing Carl's eye, I guide his attention to the hand fixed on the neck of the guitar. With deliberate precision, I coast my slender fingers onto a single chord. Then, with a fluid motion, I swipe my opposite hand down the strings, eliciting a rich, euphonic melody that fills the room. Carl's face lights up, a smile stretching across his lips. His eyes widen and the initial apprehension melts away, expanding with wonder and excitement.

Studying his awe, I contemplate teaching him something, hoping it might distract him from any lingering pain or the boredom that comes with being bedridden. I huff softly with a smile that refuses to waver. "How about I teach ya how to play a song?" Before he can nod rather eagerly, I continue. "But if I do, you have to promise ya won't half-ass it, and practice," I insist, raising my pointer for emphasis, though I swiftly drop it, feeling too much like a mother lecturing her child.