For Mr. Kendrick

After Dordogne

You, this — my closet full of
instruments taught me all
I know. An alto saxophone,
two clarinets (one for
concert band and one for marching),
various guitars, and a sad
half-broken keyboard with
the notes written on tape still
hanging onto the keys. One day I’ll
play again, I always said. And I
And I said. Until

a decade saw itself
out the door, my ability to read
music with it. What happened to us?
To me? Music coached more of
my heart than I can even grasp, so:

here’s what we’ll do. My husband teaches
English at a rural Alabama high school
that’s never had a band program. I’ve
heard murmurings of a pep band
through town, my little
treble-clef-hungry eyes wide
at the prospect of new life. That’s where
you come in, all my little horns
and strings. Maybe you weren’t
meant to live just one life. Maybe

you were destined for more. For new
fingers crushing your keys down
to make squawking godawful noise
that will turn itself

to light. Someday. These things take
practice. I know you remember.
This discipline was always a joint effort.

I guess what I’m saying is
that you weren’t made
to sit in this closet for a lifetime. I’m sorry
I’ve held you back this long. Your new
homes — new owners — are
desperate for you to arrive,
arms outstretched. Their embouchre won’t
feel right at first, and who the hell
knows if they’ll actually practice their
scales. (Lord knows I refused to.)
I might not be able to play a single
note anymore, but that doesn’t mean

I can’t still make music happen.

I hope you herald new eras of joy
and belonging out onto
fields that need you
as much as I did. So? This
is where we say goodbye.

Help them be great, now. Your time
isn’t over. Strap in. Time to go.

Extra Lives is a monthly videogame poetry and prose column by Rachel Tanner.