The Memories of Music

I won’t even attempt to write a poem about music- poems aren’t me. I’ve never been good at writing them. But a block of text doesn’t look as pretty. It really just looks like a rant. And I guess, that’s what it is. A rant about music. 

I’ll spoil the moral of my rant for a second: my whole point is, music holds memories. When I play violin, I remember learning the first few songs in sixth grade. Russian Music Box. I always had to look over at my friend’s fingers to see how to play it. I still can’t read violin music. It’s okay, though. I know the song by heart.

When I play piano, I remember the agonizing lessons that I had to sit through when I was younger. I’ve never been one for percussion. Piano was no exception. 

When I play flute, though, it’s like there’s always something new. Some pretty trill I learned. Some high note that sounds like microphone feedback. I’m one of only four flutes in my band, I’m the only one who actively chooses to sit in first chair. It was the same with violin. It makes me remember orchestra concerts, thinking that I wasn’t actually good enough to be in first chair. Thinking I was only there because no one else wanted to be.

My friend told me during our last concert that half of being first chair was having the confidence to sit there. I’m getting closer to believing her.

All these memories are the reason I’m learning a new instrument. My saxophone, with her lovely golden buttons and curved neck and deep, raspy sound, is something I’m learning because now I’m a version of myself I actually like. So that way, this music holds good memories, of who I am right now. 

Someone who doesn’t get jealous of their best friend, who knows they’re capable of accomplishing things. Someone who knows that they are good enough to sit in first chair. And someone who knows that if they weren’t, it would still be okay.