November 17th

Dear Stones,

You never told me how silly guitar lessons were. I feel like I’m in kindergarten again. No, seriously. There’s, like, a bunch of eight-year-olds in my class and they all play better than me. I can play some scales, though, and I know what a chord is. Oh, and you never told me how much it makes your fingers hurt. Seriously, my whole left hand is numb.

Every time I screw up, I feel like you’re laughing at me from somewhere.

The case still has some sand in it from when we used to skip class and go to the beach. I think it smells like you—like … I can’t explain. Like wood and polish mixed with a little bit of campfire and outside air.

I found the spot where you carved your initials—KA—on the back of the neck where my left thumb sits. I feel it every time I adjust to a new chord. It’s like you did that on purpose so I’d be reminded of you every time I play it. I remember the night you did it—the New Year’s Eve sleepover in my basement with Loren and Drea.

My parents were having that big party upstairs. The adults were all drunk and busy playing some kind of game, Pictionary or something. No one noticed us sneaking a bottle of champagne downstairs. I remember when the cork hit the ceiling and then fell back and hit Drea in the head. We laughed for an hour after that. It didn’t taste very good. But we decided to mix it with orange pop. Was that your idea? We were so paranoid that we were going to get in trouble that we drank the whole thing in about five minutes … then we had that burping contest. That was the first time I’ve ever been drunk—at least, we all thought we were. We felt so grown up. Loren and Drea passed out before midnight, and then it was just you and I, sitting around, chatting about life, listening to the adults upstairs … you took the metal wire thing from the top of the champagne bottle and turned the guitar over …

 

Me: (laughing and drunk) What are you doing?

You: Carving my initials.

Me: Won’t your parents be mad?

You: (shrugging) It’s my guitar. And besides, I don’t want to forget this night. Now, every time I look at it, I’m going to think about when I did it.

 

I miss you so much right now.

Sticks