Park in son's

His fatigued fingers graze the neck,
The source of his passion.
The strings taut,
The body worn and loved
like this own.

He begins his melody.
The melody of past dreams, past lives, past paradise
past struggle.
He struggles now.
The voice crawls out yearning to ring true
but falls short

String breaks
Fingers shake
The warm, rich wood becomes stoic.
The hands of God cannot keep still.
He wishes he could soar
He wishes he was a boy
Music drifting sweetly throughout the dusty ranch,
Looking into the eyes of his father

And I look into the eyes of mine
I see the pain, the memories, the joy
I see the dreaded disease

I pick up the failed guitar
and play
Feeling his melancholy smile
as he watches
with trembling hands