Wayne HW Wolfson
I had known even then that it wasn't such a good idea to get my wife's name engraved on the horn. My dead wife, I mean.
The guy at the shop said it wouldn't take long, three block letters. I knew it wasn't such a good idea, but as I watched the first letter appear it was as if someone else had decided. Someone else's decision, my bad judgment.
I wanted to ask what each symbol in the boxes on the calendar were for but couldn't find my voice from when needle hit brass on.
Our friends, her friends that liked me, wanted to ask about the name but the way the lines appeared in the corners of her mouth told them not to mention it. She didn't want to even see it after the operation.
I usually practiced alone, so that wasn't a problem. When I had to polish the horn was another story.
That would be a fight day. One of the long ones I couldn't easily ignore.
Never about the horn though. To even mention it after the initial blow
up would mean defeat twice at the hands of an enemy she could no longer
She could win every time. For my part, I was too lazy to try.
The chosen few would be told everything over lunch. The currency of secrets, me and my blues.
Our friends, my friends, were the sad notes that tripped over each other
as they took wing. My blues, telling stories I had meant to keep secret.