I saw it there in the dusty corner of the thrift store, forgotten for so long. Seeing it there was a lot like looking at my own life in a way. It was a little bit older for a guitar and it was worn from years of use; the strings were also a little rusty and probably out of tune, but it was beautiful that way. It struck me as such a lonely sight; to see something that used to be so joyful, now dressed in its fine film of dust particles and abandonment. I could only imagine the stories it had to tell; stories that were locked away behind that wood grain. If you’ve ever looked at the face of an old man you didn’t know, you would understand what I mean. The old yellowed price tag tied to one of the tuning keys said five dollars and I had about that much so I pulled up a tattered old ottoman, picked up the guitar, blew off some of the dust and took a seat.  I tuned it up real quick and let my fingers pluck at the strings a little before playing a few songs. We were two old men reliving our past that way for a time. I knew then that I had already made my decision, digging in my pocket as I headed towards the counter, five bucks it said, small price to pay for being remembered.