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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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
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."
