Old Friend
I forgot to take out the trash yesterday. That never happened when my wife was alive. Even when her brain went wonky, the schedule was still there. And on Tuesday mornings I’d hear the wheels of the trash can rolling down the drive as she hauled it out to the road. I have to put reminders on my phone and on the white board in the kitchen. It makes me wonder whose brain is really wonky.
I only noticed my error when I returned in the late morning from running my errands. I bought my guitar strings and stopped at the local nursery to see if they had any blackfoot daisies. They had none. It threw me for a second to see the trash cans out along our little road, until I remembered what day of the week it was. My self esteem took a temporary hit. I recovered, though, deciding my transgression signaled neither the end of the world nor the demise of my brain.
I ate some lunch, took a short nap, did some work outside, then put on the guitar strings. I restrung my old Gibson, a B-25. I didn’t realize until about five years ago, it was a beginner’s guitar. Of course, I never much thought about it. It was my guitar, a Gibson. Given to me in 1965 by my parents. I hauled it to California in a cardboard case, for Corp School, and then everywhere I went on active duty. I was playing it the night I met my wife in 1969. I played it for my children. My children played it. Last night it sounded happy to have new strings, alive again, and I was happy to hold my old friend once again, cradled in my arms. It made me feel as complete as I’m going to get these days.
John W. Wilson is the author of The Long Goodbye: A Caregiver’s Tale