The Guitar Man

Prologue - The First Man Who Played Guitar on the Moon

Prologue

The First Man Who Played Guitar on the Moon

March 14, 2014, Friday

Mornings in the city are always welcomed with the noise from street – started by vendors selling taho, then the early risers getting their first cup of coffee or their copy of the local newspaper, then people rushing for their ride to offices and schools, and the car horns blaring angrily which mark another all-day traffic.

For people used to these early morning city noise, they become the first tune of their long day. For me, they are the first music of a lovely day. The stir of street activities reminds me of the busy hours I will spend with the people I love.

I sip my mug of hot cocoa and watch as the rays of Manila sun slowly reach for everything in its path, like long and frail fingers. If I try extending my fingers, I wonder if the frail hand of the sunlight will hold mine.

A moo sound breaks through my thoughts. The alarm clock, bedecked with cute cartoon animals in each of the twelve numbers, registers 6 a.m. Time to wake little Tim.

 Tim’s tiny room glows with celestial objects – neon-green comets, electric blue stars, three bright pink half moons, tiny amber rockets – which I assembled upon his insistence that he wanted to become an astronaut someday.

“Rise and shine, little astro boy,” I whisper. I tickle my son, who is pretending asleep but has a wide grin on his face. I pick the boy up and kiss him incessantly. Tim chortles heartily, squealing for his mom to stop.

“Gooooomorning!” Tim yells and flings himself to hug me.

“Good Morning!” I shout as well. “Eat your breakfast. Take your show – “

“But mom you promised to play that guitar today,” he says, pointing at the cedar guitar leaning on the wall.

That guitar – peppered with childish stickers and decals, some faded, some still shiny - was a keepsake from my teenage years. I kept it whole even after I started making a family. Tim took it out on our recent trip to the bodega to recover an old set of dishware that my mother asked for.

“I know I promised. I’d play it after I pick you up from grandma’s house, ok?”

“Not ok. You said today.”

“Yes, today. But not at this very hour. We’d both be late.”

I allot an extra thirty minutes every day in case an emergency breaks out. This situation certainly is not an emergency. I work around children of different ages for ten years in a big orphanage, attending to their welfare. I knew for certain how to handle little kids.

Tim’s eyes start to well up with tears. His lips pout, trying hard not to bawl. I am looking at an emergency now.

If his father’s here, Tim would sulk the whole day for not getting what he wants, my husband would not tolerate his childish demands. Luckily for Tim, his dad is on a business trip to Seoul.

I look at him and my heart start breaking. My degree in child psychology and behavioural science does not dictate my decision; my natural affection for kids often does. This character has led me to become an administrator for an orphanage and counsellor to various organizations. It helps me feel purpose-driven and happy.

 “Alright,” I give in, “I play while you eat your breakfast.” Tim gives me two thumbs up sign, rather vigorously than necessary.

I can’t help but smile. I carry Tim and the guitar to the dining table. I prop him on a chair and take a seat opposite him. He munches on his ham and egg sandwich, while I mount the guitar on my lap and caress its neck.