The House of the Rising Sun
My head rests gently on the plush brown carpeting in my basement. It’s winter and it’s cold. However, the temperature doesn’t affect my 8-year-old body like it does today. Sharp fluorescent lights fall just short of the corners of the room, precisely where my father and I are sitting. His chocolate eyes are somewhat obscured by the deep, elongated shadows.
He lounges cross-legged against the paneling wall, his battered guitar perched carefully on his thigh. He adjusts the tuners while absently plucking strings, oblivious of his present audience. He hums quietly as he works. Suddenly he looks up, holds my gaze, and winks.
My dad was in a band. I don’t actually remember his being in a band, and in fact, I hardly remember him ever even playing his guitar. It generally resided on the top shelf of the storage closet in the basement…
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