Flamenco guitar.

I sedated my father with meatloaf and mashed potatoes tonight and then dragged him to see a classical guitarist at the library. Who's going to turn down a girl who can cook meatloaf and mashed potatoes?

The guitarist, who had several Latin names, the last being Pico, seemed like a gentle man. That's the first word that comes to mind. His hair was dark and wavy with some streaks of light gray. He was Colombian, and his skin was a warm golden brown. He had a small stature, and he gestured towards his heart whenever he spoke. His voice was soft and apologetic, heavily accented and unsure.

He had transcribed Pachabel's "Canon in D" at someone's request, and, though the rendition was shaky, it was also lovely. His fingers quivered the strings the way that a gentle, steady patter of rain taps at a dandelion stem. The movement was imperceptible except to the ear.

The acoustic guitar, when played alone, has an exploratory and tenuous sound. The notes quaver and pause a moment, like a ballet dancer on her toes with her hand cupped to her ear waiting and listening, and then they pass into nothing. Each note is a swan song. Each note is tentative. Each note sounds as if it was created specifically to express that moment. Just then. Spontaneously.

And also as if it might have paused there for a century or more. As if it was struck on a lyre made of a tortoise shell within the cool chamber of a Greek cave in 341 B.C.E. And it has been there, on tiptoes, ever since.