This morning I took out my Westbrook guitar. It’s about fifty years old now. My parents bought it for seventeen dollars at our local music store. I’d said I wanted to learn how to play. I took a few lessons from Mrs. Hughes, but they didn’t go very well. What I heard in my head was not what came out of the guitar, and certainly wasn’t what was printed on the page. The guitar still has its original strings. I just tuned it using the piano. It sounds terrible. Discord in Any Minor. It’s small. Now it’s leaning against one of several stacks of books in a semi-hidden place here in my library and work space. With a little light shining on it, from across the room near the front doorway, I can see its neck through the gap between two tall shelves. All it needs is hair and a hat, and someone to say, Well, will you look at that!