In my room
overlooked by a dusty lampshade
is a place
of sanctuary
where music lives
and two pieces of wood
are
used to make
artistic wonder.

On that day,
I was absorbed in the sounds,
licks and fills
dripping from the heads
like smooth
creamy peanut butter.
The sticks, two circus tigers,
leaping to strike
but only as the ringleader would
command.
Fur bristling on end
as their dance is
brought to the edge of
untamed fury.

With the earbuds
turned up loud enough
to block out the sound
of
the raging felines,
my ears just barely
make out the
hits as they fell upon the drums.
And the salty taste of
sweat on my lips,
fueled the havoc
as static filled strands of hair clung
to my face
in some attempt to
slow me down.

My eyes,
the adrenaline letting up
just enough
for them to focus,
stop me.

Frozen,
the only sounds coming from
my breath, heavy against
the world.
One of the pieces of wood
no longer the same
as the other.
The tip of the tan wood ripped
right off
along the grain, now
only leaving a wooden stake.
Puzzling it was,
to have been my doing.
Just a kid surely could not
have uncreated such a sturdy
structure!
And yet,
I knew two truths.

The first being that
it was indeed my doing.
And the more important,
was that I was right.

A kid could not have
broken that drum stick.