“Somewhere”
For Mr. Dostie

“There's a place for us,
A time and place for us.
Hold my hand and we're halfway there
Hold my hand and I'll take you there,
Somehow, someday, somewhere.”
-”Somewhere” West Side Story

Gray and argent stippled hair
became more lusterous every year
until it matched the fabled silver
trumpet that was only produced
in the direst of musical emergencies.
It wasn’t just the notes
or that in New York freshman year
you let us roam alone.

It was
Hot summer days
at the end of the year
when you bought donuts
and  let us play cards.

It was
the stories you told
(and I remember them all):
the chicken factory,
the handcuffs,
and that when you were our age
you “would have killed for a solo
like that” so you punched a kid
in the lip for trumpet first chair.

It was
catching anyone who was
out of step
or not in rank or file
and how you yelled out
“Right face!” (thump! thump! thump!)
or “Band rest!” (ba da-da dump!)

It was
the tux you wore at concerts
and the hankerchief
that always wiped your brow
by the end of the night.

It was
how you transposed music
just for me
so I could play my flute
in jazz band.

That’s why in 4th grade
when you were late
we tooted out “At the Hop”
as well as we could
with no supervision but the painted
busts of Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart
until you came so you would be proud.

That’s why in 9th grade we marched
as our fingers numbed and lips
stuck to metal instruments
for the Santa parade.

That’s why we came to every game
driving rain or heat wave
in cotton and wool 3-piece uniforms
and shoes that absorbed cold.

That’s why we’re here now
Alumni from forty years
or more here for your retirement
playing your favorite song
watching you slow dance
with your wife and seeing
in your watery eyes
that you feel the same way.