In a sun-filled room that was full of afternoon shadows and raw wood, a barefooted man picked up his acoustic guitar and played a tune you knew by heart—those sad notes plucked in the comfort of his quiet lap. How he cradled his guitar; you remember him that way, tenderly on the edge of your bed in a cold upstairs apartment. His cottony voice kissed what was broken, but who knew that then. The leaky windows frosted over. The wizened, wild-haired landlady banged against the back door with her plunger. She wanted the rent. She wanted the music to stop.
M. J. Iuppa lives on a small farm near Lake Ontario’s shores. Check out her blog for her musings on writing, sustainability & life’s stew.