Rhapsody in Blue

The neighbours must think she's killing the cat. An intermittent high pitched squeak that opens up to a full throated belch travels through the vents, like a goose in heat or an old man trying to blow his brains out through his nose. This was way easier in seventh grade. It's been 24 years since Reggie picked up a clarinet. She thought for sure she'd be able to run some scales, play a few ditties from memory but she fears she's bursting blood vessels instead. Two thousand dollars in facials, microdermabrasion and intense light therapy for age spots down the drain. The horn was on display in the window of a pawn shop on Queen East and in a flurry of nostalgia she shelled out $150 cash. Perhaps it's a just a crappy horn and would sound like an animal being impaled even if Benny Goodman was blowing it. The real question is what is she doing trying to recapture obsessions of her youth. She hated band practice. Reggie skipped rehearsal as often as she could fake a cold or cramps or kill off some distant yet terrifically important relative that would be impossible to track. She had quite the extended family tree in junior high. Luckily Mrs. Davis left midway through grade 8 so she could reuse half her dead relatives on the subs and poor Mr Fitzmaurice. He hated teaching band so Reggie figured it was a win-win for both of them. She thought it would be easier by now, all of it; somewhere along the line black and white bled into a sea of mutable greys. The constant struggle seems longer and harder with diminishing rewards. Jeff's miserable and hinting about a job change, a life change, a wife change. Dad's lost his mind and Reggie's at sea. So stumbling across the beautiful but battered used Selmer on the corner of Church and skid row felt like a sign. Or a warning. Everything old is new again and the only constant is change so either master the past or come to peace, let it go, move on into a new song waiting to be sung. Play on or lay down your horn.