“Hey.” I wave at him from my spot on the ground.
“What are you doing on the floor?” he asks, scrunching his nose in the most adorable way.
“Um...” I rise onto my knees, mulling over how I want to answer that. In the end, I go with a half-truth. “I was asleep on the couch and fell off when your mom rang the doorbell.”
“I’ve fallen out of bed before,” he adds nonchalantly. He makes his way into the living room as I sit on the sofa, watching him.
Rhys walks over to my guitar, sitting in the case on the coffee table. “Cool guitar.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ve never seen a purple one before.”
“It was my mom’s.”
Rhys stares at the guitar, equal parts curiosity and awe. It evokes memories of watching my mom play as she sang whatever silly song she would make up.
“Want to play it?”
“I don’t know how,” he replies, shaking his head.
“I can teach you if you like.” The suggestion slips easily as I reach over and pull the guitar from its case.
“Really?”
“Really.” I pat the seat beside me. “It’s easy once you get the hang of it, but it takes lots of practice.”
“My uncle Cam says practice makes you better.” He takes the spot next to me, an infectious smile on his face.
“Your uncle sounds smart.”
“He plays for the Evaders,” Rhys boasts, puffing out his little chest.
“I’ve heard. I also heard he’s really good too.”
“The best.” He beams at me.
“Go on and take a seat.”
Rhys sits on the sofa, his little feet dangling.
“Are you lefty or righty?”
“Righty,” he confirms, making this an even easier lesson.
“Me too.” I describe the different parts of the guitar, pointing them out as I place the instrument in his lap and rest the curve on his little thigh. “You want to hold the neck with your left hand and strum with your right. But first…” I pull the pick out of the first fret and hand it to him before showing him the chords.
He listens intently as I explain how to place his index finger on the E string on the second fret and his middle finger on the D string.
“Don’t forget to curl your fingers so you don’t touch the other strings. Now, strum.”
Rhys gently sweeps the strings with the pick in a downward motion over the sound hole. The pitch has a little too much vibration, but by the look on his face, you would think he played an entire song.
“That was great, kiddo,” I say.
“Thanks. Mom, did you hear me?”
I look up to find Rylann watching us from across the room, looking at her son like he hung the moon.
