The old man and his guitar

Smooth strands recognizable as Barbara Allen, issued from the small pub in the high street. The folk song struck a chord in the old man, touched a piece of him he hadn’t touched for a long time. It was live alright, although he couldn’t see the musician, the quality of the sound told him as much. Yes, he could tell it was live, the best sort of music. The softly illuminated windows formed deep yellow squares on the scruffy brick exterior of the Autumn Oak, in dire need of re-pointing. The music beckoned to him, like an invisible finger through the crack in the doorway. He hadn’t been through that door for many years, into the home of the drink that had so nearly taken his life. He had vowed never to enter that place again and he wasn’t about to break his promise. The drink and the subsequent drive on that fateful night had ended his career, if not his life. He lost his arm in the accident and to him that had been as good as losing his life. He had been a guitar teacher and the local pub troubadour and was dearly missed by his pupils and the patrons of the Ancient Oak. But a guitarist is no good if he can’t pluck his strings. When he had realized he would never play again, only his wife had saved him from depression.