Don't Forget to Write

No Funny Business

Karen and I went to my room and she forced me to let her read more of my writing. There were a few poems and drafts of stories scattered around my desks from days when my mind was overfilled and I needed to get the thoughts out. "This is good, Pete. You can do something with this," she kept saying. I sipped my whiskey and stayed quiet. After she had read enough she picked up my guitar off of its wall hangar. "I didn't know you played," she said.

"I don't really. I just callous my fingers in a quest for joy."

"Don't we all. Do you know any songs?"

"I know a few, I haven't played in a while though. It was a gift from my grandmother, makes me kind of sad when I play it."

"It should make you happy, it's a beautiful art that you get to share with her from beyond the grave."

"You're right, and one day it will make me happy, but I'm not there yet. Right now it just makes me sad. But, please, if you want to play it go ahead. It could use a good tuning."

She played songs by Indie bands whose names I didn't know. They were all melancholy, usually about whiskey, road trips, women, and losing everything. It was a beautiful kind of sadness that I knew all too well. Then, to lighten things up, she played Christmas music. She was smiling and laughing. "Get into the Christmas spirit Peter! You're such a grumpy Grinch" she'd say with a giggle between verses. "You never smile enough, has anybody told you that? And you have such a lovely smile". I laid and closed my eyes while listening to her raspy singing voice. Soon I was nodding off, and she put the guitar away and turned out the lights of my room. She laid down next to me and said, "no funny business, Mister." But I was already asleep.