Thirteen
Phoenix
Griffin’s playing the guitar that’s been on a stand in the great room since they moved in. He’s sitting on a chair, strumming the chords to the Brantley Gilbert and Lindsay Ell song.
“Can you send me the recording?” he asks, never looking up from his fingers.
I retrieve my phone from the pouch of my sweatshirt and send him the recording I took with Kingston. The screen on his phone lights up and he stops playing, taps his phone a few times, then my voice starts over the speaker. I cringe.
“You lack control,” he says matter-of-factly. “You need to be careful when you’re changing pitch. And it’s like you’re not feeling the lyrics, you’re thinking about the next note you have to hit.”
I sit on the couch.
“And your brother needs to find the timbre to pull this off since
