A moving authorship…if that is a word.
Over thirty years ago. I was a child. My father took us to a cemetery to check for ancestors we had learned to be buried there. It was a country church. And in the church was a stained (still is) glass window bearing the names of great great relatives. When we pulled in to the parking lot I remember it to be empty. But there was a “man”. He was older than us children. But he couldn’t have been more than twenty or something. He was playing a guitar under a tree. And he kept looking in to something. At some point or another we managed to make our way to him. Our curiosity was peaked. I couldn’t tell you what he was playing, I couldn’t tell you if he was just learning, or already a master.
I do, however, remember and can picture his curly haired head looking…
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