My sister would be delighted to see how my great-nephew (grandson of Léo's sister) is becoming an increasingly talented guitarist! He's passionate about it.
I pay tribute to my sister with this whole story.
It all started with my "avatar guitar" :-). Before moving, I asked if anyone in Leo's family wanted my guitar, and he did. We would have had a raffle if someone else wanted it. But only he did. I still have all the emails we exchanged.
He started learning to play, and now he's giving concerts!
Why "avatar guitar"? I called it that because I bought it to replace my sister's guitar, which I left behind in Brazil.
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Here is the story of my guitar, as I wrote a long time ago:
My guitar stays in its corner, silent, in its original box, just as it was when I bought it. Sometimes, when I'm alone at home, "she" comes out all out of tune and asks me to tune it—yes, I know how to do that, I learned it when I was a little girl. I take advantage of these moments to sing songs from the past, which bring back memories. But it's not long before I give in to the pain in my secular hands in music, and the avatar returns to its storage, protected from the dust.
As a child, I learned some very simple chords from my father to accompany a folk song that I only heard being sung during my childhood, until my adolescence, and then never again. The most I managed to develop in this art was to apply these chords to nursery rhymes and lullabies. And then, by watching my sister and trying to imitate her, I managed to make my fingers a little less rusty, they even began to form calluses on the ends – after a lot of pain. But the effort was in vain, I lacked agility, I lacked talent.
"Every cloud has a silver lining"... I explain. It's because I get compliments from my husband, he says he likes to listen to me, when he catches me in the act. I consider it a proof of love, I'm lucky. But I avoid dwelling on the bad... he might change his mind :-).
Let's return to the story of the avatar... A month after my sister's death, I returned home to Canada. My mother, my brothers, and I—I don't remember who suggested it, maybe I myself—all agreed that my sister's guitar would come with me. But "she" didn't want to go into exile; the possibility of traveling so far from "her" friend, from so many joyful and sacred moments, was rejected. When I was at check-in, I was prevented from boarding the plane with the instrument. It would have to go in the cargo hold of the plane. I didn't want the guitar to go through that experience; I didn't want "she" get hurt. I preferred to leave "her" with my family.
I was sad, as if another piece of my sister had been disconnected from me. If there were still tears to be shed, if any had been held back before, they collapsed during the journey. It was cathartic.
I resumed my life. One day, while out walking, I found myself in front of a music store. There were all sorts of instruments for sale. Even though I wondered how useful it would be, I bought a guitar—the avatar.
This may not logically explain why I have the instrument at home; it seems eccentric. But, as the saying goes, "It takes all kinds of people to make a world."
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