The Thirteenth Song

He hands me my twelve-string.

I curl my fingers around the neck.

Run my thumb down the strings.

Tune the C and the D.

Strum.

And smile.

The only time I feel easy with myself is when I have a guitar in my hands.

Even now, twelve days into this torment.

But when the strings are tuned just right, the music comes out of the guitar, then curls back and into my gut, just like we’re breathing. I pick each string, then slow strum, and…