My Empire of Dirt

Tony Polecastro October 10, 2025

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In the space between heartbreak and helplessness, a quiet song brought peace—and a way forward.

by Al Straker

It was a grey, dull February afternoon when I got the call that changed everything.

I was crossing campus at Boise State University, heading to my custodial shift at the rec center, mentally drained from a full day of classes. My flip phone buzzed with the familiar ringtone I’d set for my mom. I nearly didn’t answer.

My mom is a TALKER—I’m usually lucky if I get a word in edgewise. I was tired. But something told me to pick up.

“Hey Mom, what happenin’?” I said. There was a pause.

“I have some bad news,” she said quietly. “Grandma’s cancer came back. It’s spread everywhere… they’re putting her in hospice. Doc says she only has days.”

My stomach dropped. I let out a long, slow sigh. “Okay,” I said, “How’s Dad? Are you okay?”

I kept walking toward work, in a kind of trance, as my mom continued speaking—her voice tight, fighting back tears. We said our I-love-yous and hung up after I promised to call her the next morning.

I started grappling with what to do next. Could I take time off? Could I make it there in time? Then reality hit: it was finals week. And being a stereotypical broke college student, I couldn’t afford a last-minute flight from Boise to Washington D.C. Driving would take too long, especially in early February’s weather. I wasn’t going to make it. I wasn’t going to say goodbye in person.

That realization gutted me.

I shuffled through my night shift in a daze. Alarmed the building. Walked to the parking garage. Sat in silence as I drove my beat-up Dodge Ram 50 home in the dark. The radio stayed off. I was just sitting with the weight of it all—thinking about Grams and how much of my life she’d helped shape. Our shared dry humor. Our middle name—one I was proud to have, even if I caught flak for it sometimes. The memories.

By the time I stepped into my dark one-bedroom rental, the silence felt louder. My wife was already asleep—she had an early hospital shift. I sat in the kitchen, too wired to sleep, too numb to cry.

Then, I saw it: my guitar, hanging on the wall.

In a room that felt so cold, it looked like a beacon. I walked over, took it down gently, and sat with it on the couch. Closed my eyes. Ran my fingers along the strings. The smell of lacquered wood. The tension of the coiled steel beneath my fingertips. It felt like home.

I began to play—softly, slowly. “Hurt,” the Johnny Cash version. The one already echoing in my heart. I didn’t care about hitting the right notes or timing. This wasn’t a performance. This was a prayer. This was grief with a melody.

And as I played, the tears came.

It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. Hot, steady tears as I played and sang in my head. Looking back, I think the guitar gave my sadness somewhere to go. It helped me process what I couldn’t fix. It gave shape to the pain.

When I finished, I just sat. Breathed. Then undressed and slid into bed beside my wife. Her steady breathing grounded me.

The sadness was still there. But it had shifted. There, in all that grief and frustration and fear—I felt something else: a tiny thimble-full of peace.

I knew things were going to be hard. But I also knew I had an anchor. My guitar wasn’t just a tool—it was a companion. A mirror. A place I could go when nowhere else made sense.

I held onto that feeling as I fell asleep, knowing I could face whatever came next. One note at a time.

Categories: Guitar Stories

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