Watching Warren play the guitar today was inspiring--and yet agonizing. He can't play all that much anymore because of Parkinson's--he shakes--but it hasn't let go of music. The heat he put into his voice, the way he rocked back and forth, and all around, thumping his foot for the beat--he broke the pick--it tore at my heart every time he missed a string or fumbled with a note. I can't begin to describe the hold his effort had on my heart, seeing him reach for his past, his dreams, his music... I watched a dying man play today.
Mom sat in the doorway, smiling and crying--a bit drunk, but harmless enough today--and Coltin made finger shadows on my lap using the sun filtering in from the window. Granny sat beside Warren on the bed with a glass of wine in her hand, peering at everything through narrowed eyes--she didn't have her glasses on--and Conan leaned against the dresser on the carpet, staring off into the sky in his eyes, probably pretending not to be there. I forgot to ask him about it.
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