in retrospect, I can still trace back the exact moment I decided to give you my guitar. remember that night we went out–just the three of us, you, me, and Zia–to the art-o-matic exhibit? i wanted to take a break from packing, zia was just restless and i think you were kind of sad; what better way to spend a slow evening than to make fun of hipsters and emo-artistes, then? and so we did.
christina had just left for china, and it was obvious that you were missing her. we passed by a painting of a cherry. ‘this reminds me of her’, you said, and you asked me to take a picture of it.
hi, christina. 
so anyway. we made heart signs and struck aiza seguerra poses all evening, hamming it up next to almost every single piece of art, partly because we tried to cheer you up, but mostly because we are KAPALMUX personified. people looked at us like we were crazeh, but i didn’t care. there is strength in threes–as well as in being a minority in HipsterLand. and when the museum was closed we all walked home, slightly buzzed & still exhilarated by our shameless exhibitions of uncoolness.
that was when a strange, but slightly touching moment transpired: you started singing “moon river”, dedicated it to C., and we all crossed our fingers and hoped that although she was probably in jetlagging in class or eating congee somewhere, she would somehow feel the Mancini Magic we were creating on that summer night, and be comforted.
i think z. must have said something about how music was so much better before, and talked about showboat and old man river for the millionth time; i really don’t remember. at that time, you see, all i could think of was: omg machew should serenade christina coz you know, every pinoy boy in luv needs the tools to perfect the art of the harana and the secret ingredient to make this ingenious gold-star worthy plan come to fruition, mary margaret, is YOUR GUITAR.
this was my lightbulb moment.
(oh. a parenthetical note, lest i disingenuously play up the spark of altruism spurred by those beers: leaving it behind also seemed like a good idea at that time because, well, my suitcases already weighed like they were full of rocks.)
so that was The Plan, machew. i remember teaching you how to play the easiest chord in the world & and brushing off your anxiety about being left handed; kurt cobain & paul mcartney were lefties, man. we agreed that it would be awesome if you learned how to play in your eyez, because although lloyd dobbler is, and forever shall be a cutie-pie, i also believe this to be true:
a guy with a bowler hat and a guitar is ten times cooler than a kid in a trench coat and a boombox.
so. what am i saying, already? i mean, aside from happy birthday?
okay, here goes:
learn that mothafawkin song already, machew.
here’s to minor chords,
mags
p.s.
oh, and as a bonus, an awesome poem:
For Shiela who wants to learn to play
Patrick Rosal
The bottom end’s a little shallow
and you might need to shim the bridge
to hush the fifth-fret buzz. The action’s low
and the neck, a tad warped, but I swear,
this thing sings. For ten years,
I’ve accompanied lovers, convicts, and children
with this guitar, bought it with my last
hundred bucks, fifty more perhaps
than it was worth that day.
I just wanted to touch nylon again,
to play the way my Uncle Eli used to,
‘til cancer mugged him for his lungs. He sang, Sheila,
and the guitar did too. And that kind of singing
was like eleven acres of sky to a nine-year-old kid
terrified of a 50 mile-per-hour hard ball.
The summer my father came back
from burying his mother in the Philippines,
he told my brother and me, the two oblong
boxes he pulled off the luggage conveyor
were ours. Once home, we pried the cardboard
apart, tearing the packing tape
and snapping the industrial staples
loose with our bare hands. I ran my fingers
slow around the slick soundhole edge.
I stuck my nose into the strings to smell
the jackfruit wood stewing inside
and when I pulled my face away,
the instrument made its first silken hum.
I don’t know if you believe in time
the way I do, but when history touches us
it’s like hearing a skinny uncle sing
with a cigarette dangling from his lips
without one note of misery in his dying,
and the guitar he’s holding is yours.
You might not understand the words sailing
past you, but one day, years later, on a drive back
to Rockland maybe, where an old woman
scolded you as a child or kissed the small bones
of your shoulders, you may find yourself
singing, out of nowhere, that tune. I mean to say,
I never thanked my father for that first guitar.
I smashed it in a tantrum against my heel
and didn’t own another until this one.
I should warn you, every guitar has its ghosts,
and they’ll ask you whom you love and how much.
As for learning. your hands are going to ache
a little while, but one day, when the chords come easy,
the guitar will whisper to you some old secret.
Whisper back. The most beautiful intervals are ancient
and imperfect. They will teach you to love
something so deep, you will want
nothing better than to give it all away.
