Music Happens.
It seems dumb to say, after everything that happened.
After everything that will happen.
But it true. Music.
That was my fathers guitar.
It was gathering dust in my mothers bedroom up until the day she passed away.
It's a piece of a man i barley know.
I dont know why she kept it for so long.
I always imagined that the memory of him hurt her, but maybe i was wrong.
Maybe she wasn't remembering the vato he became, but the lover that he was.
He used to be in a band. I think it was the way my parents mightve met.
My mother was a dancer, my father was a musican. it only makes sense.
My mother dancing in a dimily lit cantina, her dress bursting with colors.
And my father sat on a creaking barstool and played a song from his heart.
Maybe im wrong, but i like that imagine.
I think we all have stories like this, little white lies that make our lives easier.