The Bid

In the nothingness of being a mother of three teenagers I latched onto a trumpet at an auction house. Just a brass beginner piece with two mouthpieces and two mutes. Mr. Harris told me decades ago I’d never play French Horn again if I quit that day and he may be right with the costs of instruments being what they are. But to touch brass again and practice embouchure. To play what I cannot sing. I placed a bid and held my breath.


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