I gently lift him from his wooden coffin, and he is resurrected with the help of my gentle breath. As I set him back down, his brass body shimmers in the light, his appealing keys awaiting to be pressed, and he beckons to me to be played once more. I again place my lips on the cold mouthpiece and listen to the trumpet's haunting song.
"Play me forever," he says. "Let the whole world be exposed to my song. Let them forget war and hate. Let them love life and each other. Music can be the language of all people. Help me to reach those poor souls who do not understand." The piece ends and I lower the trumpet from my face. How can a simple metal tube with keys make such a tremendous request? He patiently sits, his body becoming colder as his life quickly dissipates. But still he waits-he waits for me to blow through him and listen to him thrive.
Jazz trumpeter Dizzy Gillespie in 1988
Trumpet
Trumpet SoloSuddenly, his message is clear to me. I must expose his music through my fingers, my breath-my soul. I practice for hours and let him take control of me. I am no longer merely a boy; I have been given the role and gift of being the trumpet's messenger, helping in the greater cause of spreading the joy of music. I perform whenever the opportunity arises-at a concert hall, school, or any other venue. I become nervous before each performance, hoping that I will not distort the music. However, I then realize my power and purpose and gain confidence. A pure sound penetrates through the room. As I gaze out into my audience and see their smiling countenances, I know that my gift is appreciated, and for at least a few minutes, their pains and...