The Divine Conductor Laid His Baton on the Table
He left without a word.
Anyway, he was not that good with them,
so nobody could tell how it all ended, except that
it had begun to rain that day. Nobody heard a cry for help,
We wish he could have said:
“I’m leaving, little ones.”
On his doorstep, the welcome mat
was unmoved. No one sees it often.
When he leaves his house,
he abandons no one inside, just a ghost of the past —
Grandma, the only woman
he truly loved and loved him back.
When we got to him his eyes were
transfixed on the ceiling, something he sees everyday.
We thought, perhaps heaven opened before him,
(otherwise, he wouldn’t stare with such passion) —
he, a spectator of a host of winged musicians
playing the sound, that of trumpets; yet, how queer to his
earthly ears and how light upon his tired soul,
scooping him up for a joyride of notes
never before released from the realm of
creativity, ingenuity or imagination
because such vessels cannot
contain nor pour
Of that character must have been the spectacle before him,
for he never closed his eyes until he was found.
We recovered his trumpet
(already ill with rust).
It was as dead as it was silent.
Others surmise he must have struggled for that
last blow, as a trumpeter prepares for the long
finale, sucking in air and filling his lungs
for that final flight, before the curtain falls and the final applause.
Be that as it may, we were in agreement with one thing:
There was no encore performance that day —
the Divine Conductor laid His baton on the table.
In loving memory of Uncle Ben…you will never be forgotten.