Flute Playing

Back then, I hated lessons.
Every Saturday morning, Mr. Grimes
would notice my peeling lips and remind me
again
to use Mentholatum balm as he pulled his jar from his old wooden desk.
I hated the smell of the stuff.
Back then, I dreaded having to play my exercises,
my only motivation to avoid the "look" he gave me
to indicate he knew how little I practiced
since the last lesson.
No words needed.
I knew that one day I would feel differently
in that rather indistinct way the teenagers are
sure that their angst driven existence must somehow
evolve before  a self or other destructive act.
I pick up the flute and miss Mr. Grimes, his jar of Mentholatum
in hand, his endless patience, knowing now that he
never actually used a reprimanding look, just the look
of a wise man at an angst driven teenager.

Photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/alheard/356344743/, as I am too lazy to get out my flute and take a picture of it!