Hey there, blackbird.

On days when I am missing my guitar, I stop into the local music store where George, the owner, tolerates me as I pull acoustic guitars off the walls and play them, without ever intending to buy anything. George knows this. He knows I'm new and I'm poor and I miss my guitar, which is undoubtedly falling apart in my sweltering storage unit in Vermont. I'm kicking myself for leaving it there. I haven't played in a long time, and when I chose to move without it, I never anticipated that I would miss it this much. I need an outlet and I need something here that feels intimately familiar and mine.

George is a middle-aged man of average build with wiry gray hair, a no-nonsense face, and very kind eyes. He worked as an engineer of sorts for NASA when he was younger and got to travel all over the world. But he wasn't happy, and so he decided to give it up in the '80s in order to buy a music shop in Astoria. He said it was a long process to become declassified, but that he never regretted for a second choosing to go in the direction he did. When I look at him, I can't picture him working for NASA. But I also can't picture him playing the bouzouki, which, apparently, he does. 

The other day, I was perched on a stool somewhere in the corner of the store, plucking away at a guitar when he said, "Your playing is quite lovely, by the way."

"Thanks," I replied self-consciously. "I wish I could read music."

He looked up from the guitar he was restringing and asked,
"Can birds read music?"

That made me smile.