The little dude received a “real” (kid-sized) guitar last December. He loves it. When he picks it up, he switches from a four year old whirling tornado to a serene—almost sedate—and philosophical musician, composing original works as they come to him. He came out playing this morning, strumming a peaceful melody for me while I packed his lunch. I told him his song was beautiful. He closed his eyes, bowed his head and whispered, “Thank you.”
