Something about My Trumpet
...wide-edged glasses. The reflection in the galvanized golden surface of my trumpet showed the scene beside me, the black glasses and an ebony Chinese cabinet full of medals and cups he won. For quite a long time, I hated to see the black glasses and I believed I must be the stupidest guy on the earth who kept on wasting time on a freezing brassy chunk instead of hanging out with my friends, shooting birds, digging cicadas from tree cavity, which, I thought, was the exact thing a boy was supposed to do to built up his courage, intelligence or even dignity. But it was proved totally a fallacy after one thing happened. When Childrens’ Day came, I was asked to give a performance in front of all the students and staffs of my school. Frankly, I still remember how nervous I was when I was on the stage. As the compere asked my name, I got choked with my hand keeping on scrabbling on my trousers, absolutely like an antic buffoon. But, as soon as my lips touched the trumpet, magic happened. (It exists something in this world that can not be interpreted from a rational standpoint. Especially, it occurred at the ...