You sit in a musty old case underneath my bed.

Your strings extended,

Your strap folded.

As I strum your strings,
Memories flow through my head,
And I sit and cherish the moment.

I can hear my father when I play you,
All of his wisdom and inspiration,
Of which I try and emulate.

I am reminded of

Family

Performing for the Variety Show

And my attempts at songwriting.

You have been passed down to me from my father.
I handle you with care,
Despite your scuffs and scratches.

I will never sell you or give you away.
You mean too much.
You are my creative outlet.