Friday night, the eldest boy came home from his big adventure, after nearly six months away in Copenhagen. At the airport, I could hardly contain myself, I was so crazed with excitement. We parked and we waited and waited some more. He gave us sporadic cell phone updates: "I've landed." "I'm waiting for my luggage." "Got my luggage. Waiting for my guitar." And then, the final update: "#%&! They lost my guitar."
It didn't cost much, his guitar. He bought it in a tiny shop in Copenhagen for 300 krone, which seems pricey until you convert it. That's 60 bucks, American. Still, the search for the guitar, the victory of finding it, the rich sound it made and the joy of playing it for hours on end in his miniscule room, amps the sentimental value. The loss strikes a sad chord, to be sure. It's possible he'll get the guitar back. It's also possible he won't. Maybe someone took it. Maybe that someone will rot in hell. In this lifetime, guitars may come and go, along with other fleeting possessions. But the memories can't be stolen off a conveyor belt. Some things are irreplacable.
Saturday Update, Supplied by Dept. of "Will Wonders Never Cease": Lost guitar found in Frankfurt, hitching a ride back to Sherman Oaks.
Sunday Update: Guitar showed up, slightly damaged, at 1 a.m., hungry and tired, but happy to be reunited with its owner.
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