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.