Back then in the year of 2009
I had been in 4th grade, looking at instruments one
day and I found a shiny trumpet with valves oiled
as it lay on its side, waiting for
me to pick it up and play it. I was ten.
I admired all that gleaming metal, the
shiny brass, the petite size
perfect enough to hold; I picked it up gently
in my hands, and stood with that
companion, ready and steady. I was ten.
I could find the mouthpiece to play some notes, holding
the instrument in my hands that day. I thought about
the music I could play, and putting it to my lips got back a
confident attitude. I went to play, and
finger the notes, a breath. I was ten.
Thinking, as I played, I found
I couldn’t get a note out, and that my fingers
Were too small to play. I placed the instrument down, was sad-
I looked at another instrument. I ran my hand
over a new instrument, that caught my interest, picking it up.
I stood there, ten, with my new clarinet. I still stand here, eighteen, with my clarinet.