He wasn’t a perfect musician.
Not even close.
Sometimes he played the same chord twenty times because he couldn’t get his fingers positioned correctly.
Sometimes he became frustrated and dropped the guitar onto his bed.
But he never gave up.
He would pick it up again.
And again.
And again.
I used to tell my husband that one day Alejandro would probably be playing on a stage somewhere.
My husband would smile and say, “If he does, we’ll be sitting in the front row.”
I believed him.
That was why, when I walked into Alejandro’s bedroom one afternoon and saw the empty guitar stand beside his desk, I immediately knew something was wrong.
The stand was still there.
The little black amplifier was still there.
His music books were still stacked neatly beside his bed.
But the guitar was gone.
I searched the closet.
Under the bed.
Behind the dresser.
I even checked the living room, thinking maybe he had moved it downstairs.
Nothing.
I tried calling him.
He didn’t answer.
He usually came home from school around four.
That afternoon, I spent nearly an hour wondering where that guitar could possibly be.
When I finally heard the front door open, I walked into the hallway.
