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One Last Time

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Today I watched a man on stage play his guitar for possibly the last time in his life. He’s about to get hand surgery and no one knows if he’ll still be able to play the guitar after the procedure. Then I thought about my hands. What would I do if I could never write again?

I think that man was very brave going on stage—no words, just strummed strings. It’s like that gun pointed at your head demanding a response. Will he ever play again? Then I wondered how many women his hand had played the way he played his guitar. I tried silently reprimanding my thoughts for even coming up with this idea, but they wouldn’t listen because that’s just me.

Maybe the only woman his hand ever played with was his wife.

Maybe it reminded me of Holden Caulfield (you are my best friend if you know what part of the book I’m talking about).

Afterwards, I went to feed Belly (that’s my car in case you don’t know) and gave her a quick wash with my hand. It was warm and comfortable under the sun, a nice respite from the October cold and I never appreciated a functioning hand more than this.

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