Driving home at dusk in the rain. The same route I take almost every day of the week. I stop at the stop sign and wait to turn right.
And I hear a noise. Not mechanical. Not musical. Not human.
When I make the turn, I see you.
Dancing on the sidewalk.
A little boy about ten years old. Wearing bright green pants and a blue raincoat. Playing the trumpet. The trumpet must be new, or at least new to you. Because you play with a childlike sense of abandonment. I wonder if you know you sound awful and just don’t care. Or maybe you believe you sound wonderful.
A little Miles Davis.
Either way I envy you. I wish to abandon myself in something new, not caring what I look like or sound like. Or convince myself that what I do is wonderful,
even if it isn’t.
Even the rain doesn’t stop you from reveling in play. Finding joy in something new and exhibiting that joy without restraint.
The sound of your “music” fades the farther I move from you and the closer I get to home. And I wonder how long you will stay out in the rain. Until you’re called to dinner? Until you get too cold and wet and physically uncomfortable? Until playing in the rain loses it’s appeal?
I haven’t seen you since that day. But winter has come and playing the trumpet outside is probably difficult with mittens. But I’d like to think that you still pick it up and play with the same glee and innocence you did
that day in the rain.