It is the last day of summer.

The last tiny grains of sand slipping into the bottom of the hourglass.

No time to enjoy it.

Dread has already taken freedom’s place.

And I’m trapped.

Already trapped by a school that hasn’t begun.

Trapped by a school from last year that never really ended.

Last year’s school that remained, trapped in my mind.

Just waiting for its freedom.

Obligations.

Homework.

I’m trapped by the homework.

Outside the sun is shining.

But not on my face.

I am outside in the sun.

But my face is in a book.

The sun is shining on my body

But not my mind.

The work traps me.

Struggling to finish.

Is this really the end?

It is the time between summer and school.

Summer not quite dead.

School not quite started.

An empty time.

A time between times.

It is the time between being asleep and waking up.

Not quite awake.

Not quite asleep.

Is that alarm part of my dreams?

It is three snooze buttons later.

Awake in the time between times.

There is hot water, yet still I shiver

I shiver from the inside.

From the inside to the outside.

It’s so cold in the time between times.

And as I walk down the stairs, I can feel something.

It’s nipping at my heels.

Maybe it’s summer.

Summer doesn’t want to leave.

It doesn’t want me to leave it behind.

It’s no longer nipping.

It’s biting. Biting my heels.

Digging its fangs into my heels.

I keep going.

I don’t want to leave it behind.

Something is pulling me forward.

Obligation.

I am in the building.

Up the stairs.

Trombone unpacked.

Grab a music stand.

Sit down.

Routine.

My mind isn’t there.

Still in summer.

Routine.

I am playing music.

Jazz is an escape.

Any music is an escape.

You can forget your troubles.

While I’m playing, there is nothing else.

I’ve escaped.

Summer is not dead.

Summer is not alive.

There is no summer.

There is no school.

There is only the music.

There is obligation.

But only to play my part.

There is obligation.

But I’m not trapped.

I’ve escaped.

Inside the music.

It is the time right before the end of summer.

The last grain of sand sits at the edge.

Deciding whether to fall or not.

But knowing its decision makes no difference.

It will fall.

There is no music.

I’m back in the world.

Waiting for the last grain of sand to fall.

Packing up the trombone.

Detach the bell.

Put the bell in the case.

Detach the mouthpiece.

Put the slide in the case.

Put the mouthpiece in the case.

Close the case.

Put the case in the locker.

Routine.

The last grain there, waiting to fall.

I’m waiting to fall.

The second hand between 59 and 0.

Ring.

It is time after summer.

Summer is dead.

Freedom is dead.

Obligation has returned.

Routine has returned.

School has returned.

To strangle me.

To choke me.

To trap me.

I’m trapped.

And there is only school.

There is no summer.

It is the final hope.

Maybe this isn’t really school.

Maybe it’s a dream.

No.

When it’s reality, it’s reality.

I know.

Deep in my mind, I know.

No matter how much I deny it.

Deep in my mind

I have given up.

I mourn the death of summer.

It is the day after the beginning of school.

It is the weekend.

It is the time of limited freedom.

There is already work to be done, but

Never has there been freedom like this.

Never.

Wait.

Yes, there was.

There was a time.

A time from long ago.

Before the obligation.

There was a time with no worries.

No obligations.

Freedom.

But when was it?

What was it?

I can no longer remember it.

Ages ago.

No, two days ago.

What was it?

It is the end of summer.

It is the end of…

It is the end…

It is the…

It is…

It…

I…

…

.