The Last Last Band Camp Night

You know how it’s going to happen next.

The Mystic stood atop the moonlit podium

One last time, the last

Of many terminal milestones to soon come.

“Slow, horns up.”

 

The Fitzgerald of three years ago still feels so close,

But somehow everything found it’s way back to me then.

Every crooked note sung in the shower,

Every North Apartment breakfast

Coiled their intangible strings together in a way

That turned a safety net into a dreamcatcher.

I saw the silhouette of the person in every one of these memories

As I took my first step out of the threshold.

I felt a tap on my shoulders

after the first B flat departed from Annabelle, my trombone,

As if plucked as the common denominator between

Wintertime dreams in a snowy foreground

Six hours of tortured hysteria on a Peter Pan bus

One of the best poop-related stories ever told

He stood right beside me, hands on my sweaty shoulder

Like he never left us.

 

I looked down at my feet, realizing

There’s such a beautiful world on the other end of where I stood.

The threshold wasn’t a gate, but a veil.

If this is the end where everything starts again.

I closed my eyes,

My voice cracked like a drunken bear in an armoire.

Hot tears streamed down my cheeks

And I started to sing those magic words.

 

And now

The end is near

And so I face

The Final Curtain

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