“Honeybee, don’t leave just yet.” Aunt Dottie said as I rose from the piano bench.
The last class of the day was over and I’d wanted to go upstairs and take a nap before the party on the second-floor balcony started. I wasn’t used to performing for eight hours in a row, and my hands were killing me.
Aunt Dottie went to the little storage closet in the studio and pulled out a guitar case, then leaned it against the piano. “I believe this is yours. I found it in the closet of my painting studio, your old bedroom. I thought you’d like to have it.”
I hadn’t touched a guitar in years, and I wondered if my aching hands could even remember a single chord. “Thank you.” I stood up from the bench and grabbed the case by the handle. “I’m not sure if I even remember how to play it.”
“Well, before
