#195

you reminded me of a time before instruments were mass produced, before every guitarist pulled a trophy room of fenders on the stage each night, two-thousand-dollar martins, switching colors for every song. before musicians traded love and grace for showmanship and violence, pulling at each string like coyotes ripping feathers from a chicken.
it used to be a browned cowboy with thick hands, made suddenly beautiful and cautious, careful not break a string.
every show is coarse, songs interrupted with bad jokes and impatiently tapping toes while a technician changes strings and mechanically tunes E A D G B E.
for the first time i watched you play, and you seemed so old, so spiritual. everything affected you, each eyelash quivering by sweetly vibrating soundwaves, and i believe you felt it. you held the neck like it was a newborn, you were a proud and gentle father, your voice coaxing and aching. you reminded me of a time that held love and work and gratitude.