The guitars were detuned or missing strings or pegs. Some were naked lying on their bellies, others were wrapped in cloth, and three even had road cases. One of them was a 12 string, but its neck was warped. One of them had mother of pearl inlays with the words “Rock Star” painted on the wood.  

I knew each of those guitars must know hundreds maybe thousands of songs if only someone would play them. They were codes waiting to be broken... 

Once I heard my uncle shuffle up the stairs and start rummaging around the attic.  He said he was looking for books, but I think he was looking for songs because I followed him and from behind the crates, I saw how he stroked those guitars. 

His fingers ran over the fret boards of a couple.  He picked up a six-string wrapped in a purple cloth and started tuning it very slowly.  Then he picked out a blues riff and started laying down a rhythm that snaked around the room. His fingers began to dance up and down the guitar.  My uncle began to hum and then the humming stopped and in its place his voice shook free and howled.

Then my uncle stopped in mid-strum. He cradled the guitar to himself and sank into a deep reverie. I waited in the darkness behind the crates and boxes of abandoned records ~ I waited for him to start playing again.

He never did. He just left that guitar face down on a chair and walked out of the attic down the stairs and out the front door into the blazing summer heat.

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