Sometimes I stopped under the pergola to listen to the song of crickets. I sat in the semi-darkness on the old rocking chair, hugged my guitar and began to play my chords. Old songs arranged by me, with the memory of what my teacher taught me about music.
Paul… that was his name, the teacher. An old Brazilian accustomed to endless tours on cruise ships. I met him by chance entering a music store.
“I would like to learn how to play the guitar.” Continue reading “Paul’s Guitar”