In pondering over my thoughts, I returned back to that dreadful black Sunday. I found myself reaching for my trumpet, blowing through the tubes from which vibrations formed and sounds were produced. Around me was an array of invisible little angels that protected me from what I did not want to face. These little angels were the notes of a melody and my haven was the song. Tears washed down my face as I played my final note, then silence. Once the silence commenced, memories of my brother and moments which could not be traded for the world appeared in my mind. The calluses that had developed in my hands due to excessive playing of my instrument now burned. This did not burn as which my heart did for the longing of my brother’s presence. I knew that his orders to Iraq meant that his life could any day end and the songs of sorrow would forever fill my days. Thinking this, I then commenced on a song. The song of my choice reflected the desperation and frustration of my encounter with my heartbreak. The song’s crescendo tied with bursts of emotions that my heart contained, yet in the climax embodied a rush of joy and ended in an array of notes which expressed my hope. Now, I think back to that day. It is December, and the chill of its winter cold does not compare with the bitter cold that surrounded my heart. Yet, the thing is, jovial melodies play within me now. Five years past, five years of which music was my asylum. My brother returned; my friend returned. This is why my dream is to pursue music and attain a degree. It is to teach the young the power music has to heal man. It can be their place of refuge, just as it was for me.