I didn't grow up in a normal family. Well, we were normal but I felt always special in some indescribable way.
I was ten years old when my mother started to learn the guitar. She went out to a local music shop and bought an old acoustic guitar that needed some restoration.
My dad, sick at the time, found enough strength in him to fix up the old thing for her. He replaced the strings, gave it a new look and my mother found herself a teacher.
She spent hours in the living room, practicing and improving day by day. One morning, when I woke up, I heard her play a song I hadn't heard before. It was a slow sad one. I remember sitting down on the sofa, with Teddy tucked at my side. It was raining heavily outside and she focused her gaze on the picture on the wall.
She was wearing a long white dress, flowers in her hair. Dad stood by her side, his arm around her waist. I remember the way he looked at her on that photograph. That sparkle in his eyes, like there, wasn't anyone or anything he loved more.
I wanted to find someone I could watch like this. To have somebody who is my everything. I remember thinking that back then.
I was twelve years old when I saw her play first time on a stage in the local cultural center. I sat there in the front row, my grandmother Linda next to me. Her hands were cold and sweaty, whenever she took my hand in hers.
We listened to her play and it was the most wonderful moment. She looked so happy.
But that day has been burned into my memory for another reason.
It was the same day I lost my dad.
