Troubadour

Mother asked me to sort out the mess of clothes in the smaller cottage today. I climbed into the loft and while throwing all the clothes down, I found my brother's guitar under the clutter. And so I leaned back against a mattress and tuned the guitar, my fingers straining to reach round the neck. I stared at the ceiling, strumming and thinking about how wet the mosses were, about how full of promise the days are, about how I came to be this deep into the woods and this far on top of the world, about nothing at all, just because it was one of those quiet, do-nothing days.