Rhythm? Any language flowing between piano, drum, and brass was lost in us. In me. A father pounded and tickled keys while his son beat and tapped skin. I just couldn't bop. The trumpet (my favorite!) taunted me with its one enormous eye and within a measure I'd fall in love again. Each player was weathering a storm. Creating their own. I started to cry in my drunk realization that this was the way it was. Love doesn't make sense.
At some point, flute and clarinet made cameos reminding us that the lulls are why we bother.
The saxophone lay there - a luminous corpse. When it began to tell its version of a story, I believed it. I could crawl into its coffin and be carried off to another gig forever. Preferably a smoky bar with dusty chandeliers and red velvet curtains. That old chrome mic has been waiting a long time. If only there were room for two.
I think the father and son were competing for the final note. A procession that mimicked my beating heart. It was over. Neither was quite ready. Nor was I. But like all good things, even when they don't make sense, they end.
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