She sits out at the table in the backyard. I can see her from the window where I sit here writing. Her long, brown hair is down, and she keeps swishing it out of her face. More times then not, it has been pulled back into a ponytail or messy bun, so this is a change for her. On the table in front of her lies a black binder, overflowing with white copy paper. She has her phone resting on top of that, and from where I am sitting I cannot tell if she's following along with something on it, or just looking down at it.
She has her uncle's old acoustic guitar on her lap, and she's singing as she plays. She taught herself to play that guitar, much in the same way she taught herself to play the piano. This year she is taking a class in school where she gets to play and learn more than she already knows. Being I tried to teach myself the guitar once and failed, I am secretly jealous. I'm considering asking her if she'd teach me this summer, but my old blue guitar was broken and I don't know how we'd make that work.
I can't make out the words through the closed window, and I don't recognize the song, but I feel like it must be a country song. She's been on a country kick as of late, which I find amusing. When she was younger, her father discovered country music and it was all he would listen to on the radio. He got me hooked on some of it, when I discovered it wasn't all twangy ballads about dying dogs and broken hearts. Her taste in music is as vast as the sea is wide, and she goes through phases with what she listens too.
Every once in a while she looks towards the window where I'm sitting. I can't tell if she's looking to see if I'm watching, or not. At almost 16 she still seeks out my approval, even if she's not always willing to ask for it. I have realized, as we get ready to celebrate her brother's graduation from high school tomorrow, that my time with her is short. Sooner than later she will be going off to college and chasing after her dreams. Right now I'm content to watch, even if it's out the window.