She used to play the French horn
Sometimes, at our request, she would open the case
ceremoniously
slowly unsnapping the clasps
opening the case like a huge, black oyster
revealing a velvet interior
once blue, it had faded to a dusty lilac
She would gently lift the shining curlicue from its nest
play a few scales
her fingers hammering the valves in patterns I didn’t understand
a shard of some robust orchestral number
from memory
She taught us how to blow into the mouthpiece
to produce a quacking duck noise
tinged with the pungent, metallic taste of brass
Not long after, she sold Monsieur Chanson Bleu
Sometimes I wonder where he is now
Is he languishing in the window of some music school storefront?
Is he singing someone else’s blue songs?
Has he been melted down into a doorknob
the music still inside him
emanating a silent soundtrack
welcoming someone home?