They say when you get to heaven
There’s a gate
And an angel with a horn
Who lets you in
But what horn will take me to heaven?
Do we get to choose?
Can we make requests?
Will it be a famous trumpet
Like that of Louis Armstrong?
Or some epic burst of a French horn
Or a jazzy trombone entry?
Or maybe there will be that certain angel
The boy who watches down
Over the place where fingers fly over valves
And frail, fevered souls faint in the blazing heat
Only to get back up and take up an instrument
He remembers when he was among them
Those Friday night lights that were all about the band
At least it felt that way
Then those same football games a year later
Where he watched from high above
In a wheelchair
And yet his soul was on the field
Then came the walk through the valley of the shadow
The cold, soothing grip of an angel
And he heard the trumpets
He must have heard them sound for him
So now does he watch from the heavens
With his trumpet beneath his arm
And wait for an old friend to come along
So he can blow the horn
That takes them to heaven
And welcome them personally?
Or maybe he’ll stand with a band of his own
A band of angels with golden horns
Who stand and smile down as the earthly musicians play
With tears on their cheeks
As the music swells for him
And they remember him fondly
And they stand with wise stoicism
We’ll see you again, dear friend…
…I’ll be waiting.