text: In the quaint town of my youth, there was one of everything. There was one general store, whose name was shared with its owner, one bar, whose name was shared with the owner’s ex-wife, and one nursing home, whose name is meant to invoke some whimsical sense, that being the Dogwood Heights Home for the Elderly. I am not sure how I came upon working at the home, as I never had much appreciation for the older folks in society. It was not as much a feeling of disrespect, more as a subject of ignorance. All of my grandparents were deceased apart from one, and he lived so far away and was so nasty to my parents that we rarely visited him. In retrospect, I most likely took the position because either the pay was good or because of some school friend. However, the true reason for me coming to work there has been lost, all I can remember for sure is that my first few months of my employment were profoundly tedious. Normally, my days would consist of medication handouts, cleanups, and keeping the guests company. The latter was my least favorite moment of the day. So much of my day was spent trying to keep conversation with the barely conscious while they looked onward slack jawed. It was either that or they would break into dogmatic rants about any number of topics, which would end in me being the barely conscious one. This was until I made conversation with a gentleman whom I’ve never met quite like hence. Our discussion opened up a chasm of the human spirit that had never before been considered. It occurred about two hours into my shift. I was doing my average morning check ins to see the condition of the elderly and whether or not they had any complaints. He was one of the last doors in the hall. The nametag on his door read Mr. Kelly - Fortamet 1 daily evening. His door swung open with a soft creak; a noise I had gotten quite used to going from door to door. I found him sitting in his armchair that faced a window, his usual morning spot. He did not turn when I entered the room. “Hey Mr. Kelly, anything to report.” I said, moving over to his night stand to refill his glass with a pitcher of water. “Not today, Aaron,” he said, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. His long, bushy eyebrows obscuring his dark eyes. I began to trace my steps back to the door, wanting to continue my prior activities. However, as I turned to face Mr. Kelly, our eyes met, and some force within them compelled me to stay. Some deep emotion that was barely noticeable beyond the veil of his face. “Are you sure sir?” His face changed to look of embarrassment, as if I, catching that short glance slighted the armor of his manfulness, but at the same time, it was of udder relief. “Well, there has been a few small things on my mind, however, its no use troubling you with the ramblings of an old bore such as myself. Besides, its best for you to return to your work.” “I’m fine to stay, after all, this is a time to check-up on our patients, so anything you have to say would be greatly appreciated.” “Well in that case, pull up a chair alongside me, the view out this window is quite spectacular in the mornings.” I did as he instructed. Pulling up a desk chair from the opposite side of the room, I joined him at his side and gazed out beyond the panes of glass. The view was of a small creek along the outside of the home. Flanking the creek was a number of white flowered trees, the source of the rest home’s name. The sun was up behind the building, casting a brilliant light directly onto the creek and making the dogwoods almost appear to be glowing. He was right, it was quite spectacular. The old man let out a long-tired sigh. “So, do you have any grandparents to take care of outside of this place?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the creek. “Just one, but we don’t visit him very often, as he lives a distance in Portland.” “You should, it's nice for us older folks to see what we are leaving behind, an aptly reminder of our successes, and sometimes failures. I have a son; you look a little like him save for the fact that his hair is brown. He hasn’t visited me for ages for a similar reason you gave for why you don’t visit your own. He lives in one of those cities in California, I can’t remember which one. He’s got some fancy job working with computers. He loves those things, sometimes I think more than me. I’m not exactly sure what he does with them. He has tried to explain to me a number of times but it’s like he’s speaking gibberish. I barely understand a word. As a kid, he would always be on them, doing who knows what. It was around the time when they were first coming out. He would always try to tell me how they were the future, I never bought it. Well, I guess he was right.” He then sat quietly for a while, now staring at his palms. The look of embarrassment had completely worn off, now it was shame. A kind of shame only found in mistakes long past. He finally decided to continue. “But I miss him still. While he had his computers, I had the guitar.” He gestured over to a beaten up six string that leaned against the wall. Its body showed years of wear. “Yeah, I learned how to play that as a youngin’, got pretty good too. I always wanted to be some big musician, like Chet Atkins or Scotty Moore, boy, was I mistaken. Looking back now, I can see that it was nothing more than a pipe dream, and I wish that I had concentrated on more important things like getting an education.” He then let out a small laugh, although there was no humor to be found. “Tried to teach him a few times but he never acted too keen. He was more concentrated on his own aspirations than chasing the will of his old man’s passions. Still though, I wish he would have heard me out, at least once out of pity. Now, looking back upon my life at the finish line, its sad to consider the fact that my life’s goal, that being the guitar, will never be passed down to any future generations. As I remember so fondly the times that I would play him a soft song to help him go to sleep, or strum a tune around the campfire with him, I wish that those moments would be shared with his future children, to at least pass on a small spark of memory from his paw. And whenever his kids ask ‘daddy, how did you come to play like that’ he would respond with ‘well, my daddy taught me.’ But alas, he his own person, and my memory will die when I die.” His voice trembled, like he was finally realizing something that he had always known, it just never had grasped his attention before. His eyes were like a well of emotions, and his words were like a bucket brought to the surface. My mind raced, looking for some condolences that would defuse the situation. I knew that a simple ‘I’m sorry’ would not do anything to help. It would simply place a Band-Aid on a gaping wound. Finally, my brain came to a conclusion that I considered proper. “Well, you could teach me.” His eyes finally met mine. “No, no, no,” he said, shaking his head slowly, “you have way too many things for you to do already. I would hate to occupy your time playing pity on some old man you just met.” “Actually, I have more than enough time. I get off around four, and school doesn’t start for another month, you have plenty of time to teach me the basics.” “Well in that case, how about we start today.” There was no shame left on the old man’s face, only contentment. That began my favorite summer to date. After my shift everyday I would return to Mr. Kelly’s room where he would teach me cords, strumming patterns, and every number of things to become a novice. Even after school began, I would try to make time to get in a weekly lesson. My lessons ended on the day he died three years later in 2014. If I could say one thing to him now, it would explain how much that one summer affected me, because I owe him both my passion and my career.