Picks

P is for Pick.

Guitar picks in this case. All belonging to D, who loves to go into guitar shops and ogle fittings, identify pick-ups, and fondle necks. Always has. Downtown Colorado Springs had a couple of guitar stores in 1990, when we were obliged to be at adjacent Fort Carson. And I would be introduced to the finer aspects of the electric luthier's art, part of a series over 19 years. As an act of loving attention, I carried a pick with me in my wallet, so that he could play if we found ourselves in the company of an irresistible instrument.

I've likened living with D to having a Christmas tree around, good to look at, smells nice, very pleasant, but you keep finding shed picks/needles all over, all year long. Rarely have I taken out a load of laundry and not found a pick or two. This is not a complaint, merely an observation.

Getting ahead of myself here, but that's alright. So good to need a sweater and wool coat to walk to the library today.