Impressions

I was standing at the front of the stage, and there were six of us altogether. Alison, Scott, Ashley, Greg, Ji, and me. There was nothing between us and the audience. The spotlights were on and all you could see was darkness. I looked to Greg on my left and Scott on my right. The drummer started playing a swing beat, cymbals-only, 8 bars. I tapped my foot inside my shoe, feeling the rhythm, slowing my heart, trusting my hands.

1-
2-
3-
4-
5-
6-
7-
breathe-

The opening notes bounced off the far side of the room. Dah-dap.

We played- 6 as one. Nothing between us and the audience. In moments we were standing back in the band, playing the rest of the song.

I couldn't stop smiling.






I was sitting on a warm lawn next to my grandfather. The sun was shining, the sky was clear blue, and the trees were in bloom. The rest of the family was off somewhere. In all directions you could hear the sounds of students playing frisbee, laughing, enjoying one another. In front of us across the road loomed a tall, brown, brick building that I was told would be my future if I chose it to be.

I was afraid to be there, because of what it meant to be there. Being there meant I was leaving behind my life. No one from my home would be there with me to guide me or keep me safe. To answer my questions or help me be happy. I didn't want to be there.

We sat in silence for some minutes. My grandfather didn't look at me but said, "I'm very proud of you, and I want you to be happy. Choose where you want to go ... but I think this place is where you belong. You'll make it your own."

I didn't respond.







We stood in the moonlight in her backyard on a warm evening. She was wearing a black dress and looking at me. She was beautiful. I kissed her. I told her I loved her. She said she loved me. A breeze swept through the yard. I pulled her closer. My heart pounded in my chest.

She was beautiful, and I loved her.








My arms were too sore to lift. My back ached with each movement. My lips felt dry and weak, barely able to produce sound. My eyes scanned the clock on the wall- two hours to go. I couldn't stop. I had to know my number. 3- go home. 2- come back. 1- you're in. I had to keep going. Keep looking strong. If I stopped now, I wouldn't know my number.

One hour to go. I can't do it anymore. I didn't train hard enough. I can't play anymore. I'm not strong enough. My body is finished. The director raises his voice, "One last song." Which one?

The corps hymn.

No more weakness, now. No more soreness. Just visions and tears. Visions of home. Visions of my parents. Visions of her.

Zero minutes to go.

"Walsh ........ 1."








Dad walks in. He smells of grease, food, and soap. I run to him, wrap my arms around his waist, and put my feet on his. His arms full of papers and boxes, he effortlessly lifts me with his legs and walks me into the kitchen. I run back to my brother and keep playing. He kisses Mom, changes his clothes, eats his late dinner.

Mom calls us to bed- I say goodnight to Dad. He looks up from his work to smile and wave, tells us he'll see us "manyana."

I turn the corner to go up the steps and the downstairs is dark except for one light. Dad sits under it, hunched over his papers, making minute notes about inventory and schedule changes. He kisses Mom again before we go upstairs, then looks back at his papers.

We keep the hall light on at night, because I'm afraid of the dark. I sometimes wake up when something blocks the door and cuts off the light. The clock says 5 AM. I roll over and fall asleep.

It's Dad, going to work. But he never leaves without looking in on his sons- the boys for whom he gets up every day and works late into the night.










These are all images I take with me wherever I go. Whether I try to conjure them or not, I can very vividly recall them and the sensations I experienced at the time. Sometimes I'll be walking somewhere and one will pop into my head, or a situation will inspire me to think of them.