The Old Guitar

The Old Guitar

I was cleaning out the attic,
Just a week ago today.
When I spotted in the corner,
The old guitar my uncle put away.

Mom tinkered with the piano.
Dad played the fud-tub bass.
Uncle Amos strummed that guitar,
With joy upon his face.

They would play into the morning,
But they’d send me off to bed.
I would sleep just like a baby,
With their music in my head.

Dad lost his battle with cancer.
Mom passed within a year.
Uncle Amos’ old guitar,
Waited for them to appear.

Then Amos died last summer,
And the homestead became mine.
I was cleaning out the closets,
To see what I would find.

I worked most of that Sunday,
Hauling trash and clearing junk.
When I found my uncle’s guitar,
Leaning up against a trunk.

So I grabbed that music maker,
Took it down the stairs with me.
I knew where I would put it,
Underneath the old coat tree.

On the same wall as the piano,
And the waiting washtub bass,
An instrumental reunion,
Now filled up that whole space.

Mom tinkered with the piano.
Dad played the fud-tub bass.
Uncle Amos strummed that guitar,
With joy upon his face.

They would play into the morning,
But I took myself to bed.
And I slept just like a baby,
With their music in my head.


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