March 15, 2007
I played for years but never considered myself any good. Now, twenty years later, twenty years after quitting, I see how good I once was. Trombone. What an instrument to choose! But I loved it. It made me happy. I had the knack. Others would try it and flatulate through the tubes, running saliva and squirting out sharps and flats. I’d slide, ease into the tones, crystal timbre of pitch perfection. My lips buzzed afterward, memory impressed on them. My teacher called it muscle memory. Yesterday I opened the case and looked at it. I pray my muscles still remember.