Dad used to play guitar.
He had this old electric guitar in his room which he rarely took out.
But sometimes, very, very rarely, he got it out of the guitar case from the storage, dusted it off, and strummed and sang. It seemed he put a lot of effort into his singing, and he certainly sounded very sincere when he sang.
But frankly, he wasn't any good at it.
I remember sitting together with him, trying to listen to what he sing, but he sang words that didn't make much sense to me.
It's not that he used big words that were too advanced for little me to understand, rather, he sang of things that I could not understand.
His singing sessions happened maybe once or twice a year.
Usually as he was just about getting out of his winter allergies.
So although I wasn't particularly interested in his singing—or even actively avoided being subject to listening to it—I was always glad when I saw him take the guitar out; it meant he was feeling better.
