The brass 

was cold to touch

mouthpiece tight 

air balmy 

the notes

black dancers on yellowed parchment 

valves.. they are pistons 

fluid they rose and fell

notes.. raspy from inexperience 

it had been years since i picked up a trumpet. 

An unexpected blessing on this raining georgia weekend. 

I was blessed by a fellow lover of the brass horn 

Memories flooded of … like yesterday…  of green-grassy feet from the football field. 

Hours of steps, hours of notes…. teaching me discipline, perseverance and to work as more than one. 

Those were thorny years, perhaps you remember days past like these? 

Tonight- warm tea in hand- dishwasher humming and tired from hours on the road- I have been blessed.

Taken out of my lab value- risk calculating-hemorraging- code blue- surgical instrument world…

to remember my first instrument…

Reminds me to pause and remember the world is drunkenly complex and that music..

music wades and swirls around those jagged places 

the draining constants 

to fill…. and heal….

it is a Fathers gift to his tired children.





About RootsSinkDeep

Words to keyboard, not quite the same as pen to paper, but for now in a season of flurry and tiny chaos, this will do. Though I long for the feel of graphite under hand I am grateful for fingers that work the same. May you join me as I seek to find joy in the ordinary?
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1 Response to Music

  1. Know who played that instrument and thinking about how we stop playing and should play–lovely photos!

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