Three strings left. Three. Dad played it out in the cold near the fire all on his own. He was so bad that no one could stand to be around him playing that damned thing but now it sits in my dorm. Pops isnt long gone just- gone ya know? I couldn’t cry at his funeral I don’t know why. I miss him one hell of a lot but we argued too much and I guess I don’t miss him the right way. Kinda like when a teacher dies or like a coach. We just stopped talking after I started working on my own. I was out most of the time but sometimes I’d hear him plink those stupid songs when it got colder. He’d hum a little, my favorite. He’d hum John Brown’s Body like it was the last thing he’d do. The last thing he really did was something way too stupid for him to have done. Dad was never good in school, he couldn’t help me with math work but he knew enough to not drive- like that. He knew not to drive after a long night at the fucking bar.