It gets there first

 

Not sure how I did it, but somehow I wedged the wrong size reed into my clarinet.  Bob had the reed in his jacket pocket.  I don’t know where he got it but he told me it was the right one.

Here’s the thing; It still plays just fine but now it seems to already know where I’m headed.  It’s like it is aware of the music I intend to play, and it is almost ahead of me.  It’s kind of scary.

         I didn’t choose the reed. Bob did. Said it was the right one. Said it matched my soul. I didn’t know my soul had a serial number.

          It slid in too easily. Wrong size, but right fit. Like a key to a door I didn’t know I’d locked behind me. Now the clarinet plays before I do. I breathe in, and it’s already weeping. I think of a tune, and it’s halfway through the bridge.

           It knows. It knows when I’m about to falter. It knows when I’m about to lie. It plays the truth, even when I don’t want to hear it.

           Last night, I tried to play a lullaby. The reed turned it into a 60's hit. I tried to play jazz. It gave me something very unrecognizable.

              Bob won’t say where he got it. Just smiles that crooked smile, like he’s in on something cosmic. Like he’s the usher at a theater where the show’s already begun and I’m the only one who didn’t get the program.

             I think the reed is leading me somewhere. Not forward. Not back, just… deeper.