I put it down.
I went to my room and pulled the Fender off of the wall. I carefully removed the pictures that my sons had slid between its strings. (They think that guitar strings make a perfect place to display their art. I encourage this...) I tuned it up, and played.
My arms. My hands. My heart. They just weren't in it. I trailed a water glass that was on my night stand up and down the neck. The Resonator whined.
When I had picked up my phone earlier, the first message I read was a link from a buddy. At the end of that link was an article telling me that BB King was dead.
I bought this guitar on an impulse from a pawn shop in Vegas. That impulse was fueled in equal parts by whiskey, depression, and a flash of recognition. When I saw it hanging there...
black and chrome and steel.
BB King's Lucille flashed in front of me. It doesn't make sense. They are completely different guitars. They sound different. They play different. They look different. But in that moment, I saw Lucille, and I wanted her.
I opened the tail gate, opened a bottle, and sat down. I struggled through an open tuning, and played. I spent the rest of the night there, in that parking garage, pushing the notes out of the guitar, and listening to them bounce off of the concrete around me. It was work. The only thing fluid about it was how much I was sweating. It rolled off of me in sheets. I was soaked. The guitar was soaked.
Lucy has given my family so much joy over the years. But today...
Today I can't play. Today I feel like I am right back there in that hot garage, sitting on my tail gate.
I think about Lucille. I imagine the funeral. I see her, leaning against his coffin.