Prescott, Arizona. I love John Denver and was delighted to be included in a Tribute Show for the local VFW. On the way I got the phone call no one ever wants to get... "its time. Talk to Mom one last time." From the highway I said goodbye, wondering if she could hear my words, if she was too close to the light to notice.

​I arrived at my friend Corie's house in time to visit, update and catch my breath. In an effort to distract me I suppose, she told me a story about a guitar she'd bought 10 years before pulling her out of her closet home. Signed and numbered, she was an Esteban, straight from QVC. My dear friend had mail ordered her to find she was way too big for her petite stature, so in the closet she went, to live brand new til this day.

Maybe it was the sudden vision I had of myself on stage with a rose in my hair singing Mi Vida Loca with this beauty, the fact that I cope with high stress with retail therapy, or that even in someway, the guitar reminded me of my mother… dramatic and flamboyant with that Latin temper that could be as dark as the black lacquer of the guitar.  I felt my eyes glaze and the words tumbling out of my mouth, "if you ever decide to sell her, would you give me first crack?" 

Add one more guitar to the collection...

We visited until it was time to leave for the VFW Post and the evening's performance. Just a few minutes before sound check I got the call that Mom had passed. My fellow musicians all told me it was ok to sit it out, but i knew Mom, the radio star, would never forgive me. So this night I sang for John, I sang for Mom. I sang my heart out...gratefully.