🔴 THE AIRPORT CALLED — THEY FOUND MY DEAD BROTHER’S GUITAR
I stared at the answering machine, the blinking light mocking the quiet hum of the empty house. It smelled faintly of stale coffee, a ghost of Dad’s Sunday mornings.
They said it was in lost and found, unclaimed for six months. Six months. How could they just leave his Les Paul sitting there? The one he swore he’d take to the grave?
“He would have wanted you to have it,” Mom had sobbed at the funeral, clutching my hand so hard my fingers went numb. She was always so good at the right things to say. The right face to make.
Now I’m driving to that stupid airport, praying it’s really him. Or at least, a piece of him. The damn guitar better not be scratched.
👇 Full story continued in the comments…
The sterile halls of the airport were a stark contrast to the warm wood grain of the guitar I was picturing. Fluorescent lights hummed, reflecting off polished floors, and the air conditioner blew a steady, impersonal breeze. I found the Lost and Found office tucked away down a quiet corridor, a small, unadorned room with a counter and stacks of impersonal boxes.
A woman with tired eyes and a name tag that read ‘Brenda’ looked up as I approached. I explained my call, trying to keep my voice steady. She typed something into her computer, her expression blank. “Les Paul guitar case, black, returned six months ago?” she confirmed. I nodded, my throat tight. “We have it. Sign here.”
She disappeared into a back room and reappeared a moment later wrestling a large, heavy black guitar case. It was worn at the edges, scuffed in places, but instantly recognizable. My brother’s case. He’d plastered it with band stickers over the years – faded local gig posters, classic rock logos. My eyes traced the familiar shapes, my heart hammering against my ribs. This was real.
Brenda slid the case across the counter. It felt cold and heavy under my trembling hands. “You’ll need to open it to confirm it’s yours,” she said, her voice flat. I fumbled with the latches, clicking them open one by one. The hinges groaned softly, a sound like an old memory stirring.
And then I saw it. Lying nestled in the plush purple velvet lining was the guitar. His Les Paul. The rich sunburst finish gleamed under the harsh lights, the gold hardware dulled with age. My fear that it would be scratched was unfounded; it looked perfect, just as he’d always kept it. I could almost smell the faint trace of his cigarette smoke and guitar polish that always clung to it. It wasn’t just a guitar; it was years of late-night practices, garage band rehearsals, clumsy first chords, and the loud, joyful noise that had filled our childhood home. My fingers ghosted over the strings, feeling the familiar tension. It was him. A tangible, beautiful piece of him, sitting here, waiting.
I signed the final form, my hand still shaking slightly. Brenda took the paper, her face still impassive. I didn’t care. I lifted the heavy case, cradling it like something infinitely precious. Stepping back out into the busy airport concourse, the noise and crowds seemed to fade away. It was just me and the guitar. My brother’s guitar. I hugged the case tight, feeling the weight of it, the solid reality of it. It wasn’t the same as having him here, nothing ever would be. But holding it, I felt a closeness, a quiet echo of his laughter, the way his fingers flew across the fretboard. It was a connection across the impossible gap, a melody left unfinished, now finally returned to me. I carried it out of the airport, not just with a guitar, but with a piece of home, and a little bit less of the emptiness he’d left behind.