Cracked Notes: A Poem About Band

Cracked Notes

1On Monday, I lifted my trumpet,
all shiny and cold in my hand.
I pressed my lips tight to the mouthpiece
on my very first day in the band.

2I blew, and the sound was a honk,
like a goose that had lost its way home.
The flutes in the front row all giggled.
I wished I could sit all alone.

3On Tuesday, I left it at home in its case,
by the door, on the mat, in the hall.
"I'll quit," I told Grandpa at supper.
"I can't play the trumpet at all."

4But Grandpa just smiled at his teacup
and said, "Let me tell you a tale.
The first time I played my old fiddle,
the dog down the street gave a wail."

5"Did you stop?" I asked him. He chuckled.
"I practiced each night after tea.
That dog got so used to my squeaking,
he started to howl along with me."

6On Wednesday, I carried my trumpet
to school, though my stomach felt tight.
I honked and I cracked and I wobbled,
but one little note came out right.

7Each evening I played on the porch steps
the same five notes, low to high.
I played them so often that Grandpa
would hum them while waving goodbye.

8By Friday, I played a whole scale
with just one small squeak at the top.
A flute player turned and said, "Better!"
And I knew that I wasn't going to stop.

9Now when I hear a cracked note,
from me or from someone I know,
I don't hear a sound that means "failure."
I hear a sound that means "grow."