Songs from My Father

Songs from My Father

By C. Jyl Parker

Sharla had gotten used to the stream of condolence letters and flower deliveries, but the high-pitched whir of a drone delivery was something new. She was just heading into her house after checking her mailbox, and the noise made her turn. Such a big package from only a medium sized drone. The box was oblong, and the return address label was smeared. Sharla took it inside and placed it on the kitchen table. She cut open the tape with a paring knife and found an old guitar, exactly like the one her father had given to her when she was a teenager. It even had the same style embroidered strap on it with silver trim, and the strings were four nylon and two steel. Everything about it told her it was the same guitar.

Except, it couldn’t be. Desperate for money, she had sold her guitar back in the late 70’s to a friend who had since moved away. Her father had passed away the following year, and she had regretted the decision ever since. Sharla herself had moved multiple times over the intervening decades, and even if her friend had tried to send it to her old address, the forwarding addresses would be staggering.

Sharla carefully removed the instrument from its nest of crumpled papers in the carton. Taking a seat at the kitchen table, she put the strap around her neck and rested the guitar in her lap. She wracked her brain for some chords, placed her fingers on the appropriate frets and strummed the strings. It was only a bit out of tune.

As Sharla adjusted the frets for another attempt, there came a rap from the front door.

“Hey, Mom.” A cheery-faced man in his thirties entered the kitchen. Sharla put the guitar on the table and rose to hug her son.

“Good to see you, Henry.”

“Grandma!” An energetic ten-year-old bounced in and hugged Sharla. “You got a guitar?”

“Well, hello to you too, Lucia. Yes. I think your grandpa sent it before…” Sharla took a deep breath. Just how had Hank found it in the first place, and why would he have it delivered by drone? Hank had been gone for nearly a week. Why was the guitar sent now?

“Can I play it?” Lucia plucked experimentally at one of the strings.

“Sure. Sit next to me. I think it’s just your size.” Sharla placed the guitar on Lucia’s lap. “My father gave me a guitar just like this one. He had a full sized one, and mine was smaller.”

“I didn’t know you played guitar.” Henry had a glass of water in one hand, and a leftover sandwich in the other. He took a bite of sandwich, swallowed it and said, “Who’s it from?”

“I think it might be from your father.” Sharla shook her head. “I’m not even sure I ever told him about the guitar my father gave me. I sold mine years ago, and well, life happened, and I never tried again.”

“Isn’t there a note, or a return address?” Henry examined the box, now empty except for the crumpled packing papers. He glanced at the outside of the box. “It’s addressed to you, but I can’t read the “from” label. “Wait a minute. That’s not your name.” He spun the box around so his mother could read it. “It says Sharla Martin.”

A cold chill ran down Sharla’s back. “That’s my maiden name.” Why would Hank address it like that? Now it really seemed like it had come from her long-dead father.

“What’s a maiden name?” Lucia was still experimenting with the guitar, plucking one string after the other.

“It’s the name you have before you get married,” said Sharla.

“Did you play guitar songs with your dad?” Lucia looked up as she spoke, and Sharla noticed the uncanny resemblance to her younger self.

“I did play some, but not enough before I sold my guitar. Mine looked almost exactly like this one, at least from what I remember.”

“What are you going to do with it?” Henry had finished with his food and drink. He put the glass in the sink and sat down at the table.

“Well,” began Sharla. “I think I know a budding artist when I see one. Why don’t you keep it, Lucia?” She turned to her son. “Is that alright with you, Henry?”

Henry laughed. “Sure. Sounds like a good hobby at least. Something to keep you out of trouble.”

“Hmph. I don’t cause trouble. Much.” Lucia peered into the body of the guitar. “What’s that writing inside?”

Sharla grabbed a flashlight from a kitchen drawer and looked. She gasped. “It can’t be.”

Beneath the maker’s label, many years ago, Sharla had reached in with a long, narrow pencil, and written the initials “SM”.