Pickin' on Me

Image Source: memilesmusic.com

Music surrounded me at all times as a child.

My mom also grew up with music surrounding her.

The same music.

The same memories.

I can still hear the chords of his guitar.

Each plucks at the strings of my memory with angst.

How can one cherish and appreciate the sound

yet abhor and fear so greatly the sound maker?

How did history repeat itself?

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