“Tonight is my daughter’s first high school band concert. I’m not even sure why I am writing about this.”
That’s the sentence.
That’s all there was.
One line, sitting there like a front door that was never opened.
I found it today. In a sea of unfinished blog drafts.
Waiting.
Patient.
Quiet.
Haunting.
Now – today – I know exactly why I was writing.
But then?
Then I didn’t.
She’s 25 now.
Married.
Master’s degree.
Adult life.
Deadlines and decisions and a calendar full of things that matter.
And somehow, somewhere, inside all of that…
she’s still holding a trumpet.
Still walking onto a stage at West Forsyth High School.
Still a freshman.
Still mine.
Memory doesn’t move in straight lines.
It folds.
It overlaps.
It collapses time.
One moment you’re with them walking into the auditorium…
and the next moment you’re holding your breath wondering how that moment disappeared.
Or if it disappeared at all.
Because maybe it didn’t.
Maybe it just flew right by,
like everything else,
into the future,
into that clouded place
we call memory.
I imagine the room.
The bright stage lights.
The nervous energy.
The sound of instruments warming up. Notes searching for their place.
She had a Bach Stradivarius. An ’80s model. Beautiful instrument. The kind you don’t just play—you partner with.
She was good.
More than good.
She loved it.
And you could tell.
You can always tell when someone loves something.
It leaks out of them.
Her brother was there too.
Violin player.
Middle school.
Still figuring out his place in the world.
My parents were there.
Nicole’s parents too.
Because that’s what we do.
We show up.
We sit in uncomfortable chairs.
We clap louder than anyone else.
Not because they’re perfect.
But because they’re ours.
And somewhere in that moment…
I opened a blank page and wrote:
I’m not even sure why I am writing about this.
Which, I realize now, wasn’t confusion.
It was instinct.
It was my soul whispering,
This matters.
Don’t lose this.
Pay attention.
There’s something sacred about ordinary moments when you realize they aren’t ordinary at all.
They’re portals.
You don’t know it at the time.
You just walk through.
It’s only later you realize it was a doorway.
And it only opened once.
I miss those days.
Not because today isn’t good.
Today is good.
Today is full.
Today is a different kind of beautiful.
But back then…
Back then was a kind of beauty you don’t know you’re living inside until you’re standing outside of it.
Looking back.
If I could go back…
If I could sit next to that younger version of myself in that auditorium…
I wouldn’t tell him to hold on tighter.
You can’t.
I wouldn’t tell him to slow down time.
You can’t.
I’d just lean over and whisper:
Finish the post.
Write it all down.
You’re going to want this later.
Because one day…
One day that single sentence will find you again.
And it won’t feel unfinished.
It will feel like an invitation.
To remember.
To give thanks.
To see what was always there.
Love.
phillipbrande.com 