My father was a talented guitarist. I remember him playing on holidays and weekends with our family friends. In the sizzling air of Kyiv summers, they sat around the picnic blanket; my father played the guitar, and my mother sang. A young me would kick a soccer ball through the dust on the parkground with the other children. I loved to hear the sounds of the guitar, even from afar. The rhythmic beats of his hands tapping the strings created beautiful music that filled the air around me.
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