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.
5 comments:
I've never thought about guitar picks at all, but those look really pretty - mini works of art.
(Yes, the material's not nice at all. But she needs to save up before she can afford new covers for the sofa and chairs.)
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You find picks, I find thumb drives.
I,
Some get very artful.
h,
How well do they wash up?
I love that last photo!
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