A high octave shout chorus.

A fast-paced, complex Latin solo.

Punctuation marks to the chorus of a television jingle.

Secondary side-comments in recent pop and folk songs.

A sweet and sultry love ballad.

An exciting, explosive battle cry.

Whatever the note, whatever the pitch,

The sound of a trumpet speaks to me.

Not with the distinct voice of each performance,

But with the sound of one singular love,

Reaching out to me, saying loudly,

"I remember. I miss you. It's not too late. Come find me."

The silence has been broken.

The memories are flooding in.

Everyday a new moment, a new song, another missed opportunity.

Telling... No, screaming at me...

"It's not too late! It's not too late! It's not too late!"

A constant reminder of the good old days when music flooded my insides, and I was inspired.

A time when happiness came easy and work meant: Practice, Practice, Practice!

Practice wasn't work, but fun in disguise,

Trapped by a fear of not knowing,

A fear of the future; what it meant, what it held.

A fear of growing old and loosing that which I love, that continues to live inside of me.

Although very weak, it holds on dearly to the hope of a brighter tomorrow,

Of a chance to make-up for lost time,

A chance at a future filled with the light and love of my past.

As the trumpet continues to call out to me,

"Remember! Remember! It's not too late! It's not too late!"

I am reminded that although it's been months since we've seen each other,

And years since we've actually spoken,

It is never too late to pick-up where we left-off;

To create a new dance;

A new memory;

To bring the music back into our lives, into our hearts, and into our souls.