My Nephew Smashed My 8000 Dollar Gibson Guitar And My Family Expected Me To Forgive Him

my father, sixty four, retired, square shouldered, still convinced that crossing his arms transformed him into some kind of impartial judge. He looked at the guitar pieces scattered across the floor. He looked at me. He looked at Tyler crying. It’s just a guitar, son, he said. You can get another one.

That sentence hung in the air like smoke from a continue reading …