of sticks

Walking through the store to find my lesson location I probably look out of place. I have the only Soccer Mom car in the whole parking lot. Everyone I pass from entrance door one to exit door two is covered in tattoos. I want to skip through the store. I am so pleased I have found this time carved out of my life just for me- a tiny little nugget of independence and freedom and creativity and music. I then cross a street to another building where they sell the pianos. My lesson is in the back. My vans with the triple threat velcro straps squeak as I hurry past the ivory keys completely turning my nose up at them. I have never had interest in you, piano, for drums have always had my eye.

I plop my fancy purse on the floor and see the faint outline of a clean, folded up diaper peeking out. I slide the pink sticks from my bag remembering that Evan chose pink for his mommy. I had been using old tattered sticks from my first instructor. These are my first new sticks, so any marks are mine. I find pleasure in the dents and dings that are forming from hitting the crash cymbol fiercely. It means I am playing again. It's really the best thing I have ever done for myself: getting my drum kit and learning how to play it. I hope I never stop or take a long break ever again.