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The Divine Conductor Laid His Baton on the Table

The Divine Conductor Laid His Baton on the Table

 Ruth Mostrales

 

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,

No nothing.

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

it.

 

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. 

-work-in-progress-

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