Sunday, December 18, 2022
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From the corner of my eye, I saw the guitar poised up in the front of the room...to the left of the pictures... where you used to stand.
That got me.
“How fitting.”I thought.
A summation. The exclamation point on a life cut short too soon.
In my mind’s eye, I drift back. To the band. And before.
I loved who you were. Such a great kid.
I remember that time when all you guys were over. You brought the big bag of snacks your mom always sent... and your oboe.
To practice.
And while the rest of the guys were undeniably engrossed in the second or third part of Pride and Prejudice, the long version, you were in our back room, playing.
Skillfully. Beautifully.
What talent!
The oboe is so intriguing to me. I love the reed instruments; I couldn’t help myself.
I snuck in.
To sample the “concert” in person.
You welcomed my interest and patiently paused your dutiful practice to explain the differences in the clarinet and your instrument of expertise.
You may laugh, but I actually was in awe.
Thank you for that moment.
You put the 5 in Five Hundred Fires.
Side by side there was Stoic Timmy dedicatedly playing his part,
and then you,
putting in that extra pizzazz around him.
Such glad and glorious days.
We were saddened by your choices, stricken really, and we mourned the loss of you.
And as that beautiful guitar sits there silently on that stage.
Doubly so today.
