My grandfather's smile leads me forever

down a path untraced.

From tired old hands to rosy small fingers

and down two generations to date,

a tan caressed case falls into my possession.

     His long treasured trumpet is mine!

          Practice makes perfect!


Standing on stage the trumpet glitters gold 

like the sun's outstretched rays.

Curves of gold reek times untold

that I will never understand.

An angel's voice powered by long smooth tones

can send a person dazzled in awe.

The perfect match that trumpet and I.

Till death do we part?

     Did we have to part?

          Why is he gone?


I never said "I love you..."


Now that his trumpet is mine- finally mine,

we sit together all alone unsure of what to think.

Its master, creator, giver of life retired

from the world's ensemble for good.

It is a wounded soldier shot in battle

trying its best to continue fighting.

How can my love reach you?


My voice remains muted

and my metronome heart never skips a beat.

Through quarter notes, crescendos, subitos, and repeats

my trumpet emits music that connects one soul to the next.

So even after death,

will you still aid me and conduct my unknown path?

Play with me one final time

across world never destined to meet. 

This poem is about: 
My family


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