I almost went up there and took him home. I swear I almost did. I had my purse in my lap and my hand on the strap.
Then Mr. Lowe stepped up to the microphone.
“Our next performer is Caleb Morrison, from Ms. Patterson’s seventh grade class.”
Caleb stood up.
He picked up the guitar case and walked up the steps to the stage. Alone. He didn’t look at anyone.
He knelt down and opened the case. He took out David’s guitar, the big old acoustic with the glued crack near the bottom, and put the strap over his shoulder. It was too big for him. The body of the guitar almost covered his whole chest.
Mr. Lowe brought a stool over. Caleb shook his head. He wanted to stand.
My heart was in my throat. I hadn’t known he was planning anything until that morning. I hadn’t seen him hold that guitar in three years. And now my son was standing in front of four hundred people in his dead father’s shirt, holding his dead father’s guitar.
