and that means I get to play his Martin! You know college students, they sleep like logs. And that allows me to sneak in his room, grab his guitar case, and sneak away with it . . . . but where to? The kitchen? No, Mom's listening to NPR. Living room? No, Dad's reading the paper. Basement? No, little brother's playing video games. Front Porch! Just me and daffodils, who bob their heads like an audience. Dad comes out, "Hey, your finger picking is getting good." I grin like fool. "Does Henry know you're playing his guitar?" he asks. "Um . . ." I mouth idiotically. "I won't tell," says Dad, "just be careful with it." "Ok!" I reply. The Martin booms and rumbles against my body--it's like having a living thing on your lap. Today is going to be a good day.