The sun was warm on my neck when I got out of the truck. The end of a long workday in Wyoming in June looked much like it always did, high, thin clouds laughing at the thought of rain while a warm sun beat down on my father's trailer. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on "Why Violent Video Games Shouldn't Be Banned"? Get an Original Essay Looking at the large poplar trees above the old trailer, I stepped into the welcome shade they cast before stopping on the wooden porch. I hadn't heard this before, the swamp cooler, which was a must on days like this, was running in the background. But the smell had definitely taken me by surprise. Who the hell could smoke weed in my dad's house? Then I heard the guitar. A sound I would never fail to recognise, dad's old guitar. It was something I had grown up with into adulthood, summer evenings and dad's music. It never seemed to change much, as if the old man had learned what he liked and stopped. Some things perhaps shouldn't change. It was also a sound I had given up hearing since the arthritis took over. I had tried, my greatest hero being a guitarist had certainly led me to pick up the guitar, perhaps late but he had done it. One of the things I regret the most, I suppose, is that when I reached a level that would allow me to play with my father, well, he couldn't anymore. So I stopped. I stopped dead in my tracks and looked at my father hunched over her gitfiddle as he sometimes called it Wrapped over her, slowly drawing the music out of her. Tears began to fall until the slow smile hit my face, tears so bright I almost missed the Source of the smell, a small cockroach lay cold in the ashtray surrounded by the normal pile of cigarette butts. Filtered, menthol PLEASE! Dad had always denounced my smoking of weed, later in life we ​​had talked about it, both tenacious, the marijuana issue had almost broken something between us. I was ultimately given permission to make my own mistakes and he was given the ability to remain a stubborn father. But I never gave up. I had repeatedly pointed out articles about possible treatments for his chronic pain and reports that some people had gotten relief from rheumatoid arthritis. Reports from England and Canada were placed before him nonchalantly, never too offensive, but never-ending. Dad had always dismissed everything with a derogatory remark. Marijuana was the devil's weed and nothing anyone said would make a difference. Sitting slowly, I watched the old man, he looked up and smiled, even in his eyes small sparkles of water. I suppose I can imagine what it would feel like, if I were cut off from my music, and then they brought it back to me, slow, painful but musical, with the promise of something more. Yes. I can understand that. Reaching out, both of us wincing because he had missed a note that had always escaped him, even before, I looked at where he had rolled the joint. “Dad, you need a pipe, I'll buy you one” leaving me my fingers rummaged through the low quality weed in his bag, I put it down again and went to my truck. the sounds of forest flowers follow me. It's amazing how easily we humans adapt. Five minutes ago I had been double-punched and now I was reminding myself to have Dad teach me the wildflower chords. A couple of expert hand movements and my stash was out of the glove compartment and my guitar was in my hand. I hurried out of the heavy heat, happy as hell that the old swamp refrigerator was working.