my friend Ricardo

Dear Ricardo,

I remember the day I picked you up in the pawn shop between the gas station and the strip club. After school, in exchange for feeding the micro-organisms, I was taught to tickle your ivories. Godfather theme. La Vie en Rose. those were the staples of our evenings together. our sweet music rang through the halls of FHS until at least 7 p.m. every week. sometimes twice a week.

I tried giving you away several times. sometimes for free. "hey, i got an accordion. do you want it?". One time, to buy the love of a man who would never love me (musician), I packed you on the bus in Fredericton. I remember arriving in Sackville, having to drag your thirty/forty pound ass about four miles. had to stop about every fifteen steps. This may sound strange, Ricardo, but carrying you I learned the value of the end result due to hard work. I actually enjoyed the walk, the eventual forward movement, the work that would make me all the more happy to be home. i dropped you off at the guy's place, and didn't like that I had to leave you. In the end, I learned that being around him was much more masochistic than ever carrying you-- at least you stuck around.

I remember, after the boy was long gone, laying drunk on a seventies style chair in a sponge-painted room, as another beautiful boy(non-musician) stood (also drunk) and played you. I loved it. Many people have played you, Ricardo, and you take to it every time.

I don't know what happened to you after that. For awhile you just sat in your case. Until, after University had passed and I found myself once more in Fredericton. I found myself in a group of scraggly yet friendly men, drunk, playing you. Your E chords, Your G chords, Your A chords. My favourites. I came to know your sounds, what went well together, better than I had in my life. When I didn't play you I banged on glass, broke a lamp, or sang. It was wild.

I remember walking home to a party with you after the band get-together, and playing you in the streets.

I remember when, in Montreal, I was so poor that I had to sell everything I could. bikes were gone, sold. guitar, gone. you, i would never sell. I want you to know that.

Now you're starting to rasp. After eight years, I suppose you would. I just want to thank you, Ricardo, for being around. I feel like we're old drinking buddies. partners in crime. Sometimes I imagine you as a person. a shorter man, you would be wearing red velvet and have a slight bit of gel to your hair. you would be wearing slippers. smoking an herbal cigarette, you would cough, but would enjoy it each time. as if you were savouring the pain as a part of life. we would just sit, old friends. suddenly, you would break in, eyes gleaming:

"Why does Snoop Dogg have an umbrella?"
"I don't know."
"For dwizzle."