When the Band Came to Town

Courtney Walsh wrote this uplifting metaphor on death weeks after her stepmother passed away. Courtney is a junior at the University of Florida studying acting and history. As you will read, she is also a gifted writer.

When the band came to town, Mrs. McKittrick was busy baking a pie. She sat near her kitchen window tugging at the dough carefully. A jar of cherry filling waited their turn on the counter, but it wasn’t time for cherries yet. On the quiet street in front of her, the band came marching by. Trumpets, cymbals, and drums thudded down the hot asphalt. But Mrs. McKittrick was busy baking a pie.

When the band came to town, Mr. Lopez was watering his back garden. He stretched himself out in his ragged old lawn chair and aimed the water at his flower beds. The water flowed gracefully, glittering with the sun’s reflection. A wilted tomato plant stared longingly at the rogue droplets spurting above its decaying leaves that were yearning for water.

 “I’ll be back soon,” Mr. Lopez grumbled rising from his chair. He sauntered to the front lawn wielding his garden rake, which was ready to bite at any weeds. While Mr. Lopez raked his flowerbeds, he didn’t hear the band as it marched down the street. He returned to his backyard while the band played with even more vigor as cymbals smashed together, but he didn’t hear a note because Mr. Lopez was watering his garden. 

When the band came to town, Harold Slim was looking for his lost ball. He had been playing catch with himself all afternoon until his baseball retired into oblivion. “Mom!” He called out.

His mother, Shannon Slim, appeared quickly in the front doorway.

“Have you seen my ball?” He called, digging under the bushes lining his driveway.

“Oh honey, that old thing? It has probably turned into dust by now!” Mrs. Slim chuckled to herself, joining her son outside.

“I just had it.” Harold muttered, flinging mulch away from under the bushes for a clearer view.

“Harold!” His mother scolded, as flecks of mulch bounced off her. “Be careful there, you’re making a mess. Come inside and help me finish fixing supper. You can look for it later with a rake.”

Harold huffed and rose from his crouched position just as the band rounded into his cul-de-sac. The flutes soared and the snare drums snapped, but Harold did not hear them. With tears in his eyes, Harold Slim was mourning his lost ball.

When the band came to town, Miss Grace was resting peacefully. Her worn eyes were shut and her hand daintily rested in the daughter’s palm. Miss Grace woke suddenly by the sound of cymbals crashing together. 

“Oh, my heavens!” She yelped, rising slowly from her bed. The noise grew louder and louder until it sounded like the band was in her very own house. And they were. The drum major eased his way into her room, lowering himself down at her bedside. 

“What is all this?” Miss Grace scoffed, looking to her daughter for answers, but her daughter did not look away from the small television set she watched while sitting at her mother’s bedside. Miss Grace returned her gaze to the energetic band. She scanned its members silently. A lump arose in her throat. She knew the trombone player. And the woman on the saxophone. Even the clarinet player seemed recognizable. The drum major lifted his head slowly, revealing the face of a young man. Miss Grace clutched her chest, her eyes wide. 

“Roger?” She stuttered, leaning forward to touch the feather dangling from his hat. He nodded softly, offering Miss Grace a smile that filled the room with a tenderness. “I did not know you could lead a band…”

“Me either.” The drum major finally spoke, “But when I heard this band was for you, I figured I would learn.” He reached out his hand, revealing a shining wedding band on his finger. Miss Grace’s daughter’s eyes remained fixated on the television. 

“Is it time, Roger?” She sighed and lifted herself higher from the bed. He nodded, raising his arm to halt the music behind him. Each instrument’s unique sound faded. Miss Grace peered at her daughter whose sweet unknowing made her laugh. “She is going to be so mad at me.” Miss Grace sighed gazing at her daughter. “Just like I was mad at you.” Her eyes rested back on her handsome drum major. His eyes projected sincerity as he nodded knowingly. A piccolo hitting the floor interrupted the moment.

“I am sorry!” A small voice rose from the back.

“Do not worry, Cousin Anne,” Miss Grace said assuredly as she began to sweep herself off the bed. Her feet hit the floor with a firmness she had not felt in years and her nightgown became more taunt on her usually thin frame. She laughed, tugging at its worn fabric. 

“How did you know it was me?” The piccolo player pushed her way to the front, revealing a petite, young woman. 

 “How did I not? I know all of you. How could I forget the ones I love?” Miss Grace replied.

“So, you didn’t forget us?” A deeper voice rumbled. 

“Never, Father.” Miss Grace smiled. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to hear some more music. Preferably The Battle Hymn of the Republic. I have always liked that one. Elvis sang it once, you know?” Miss Grace directed her words towards her daughter, sitting still and cloaked in ignorance. 

The drum major raised his baton, “Ready?’ 

Miss Grace nodded.

The band’s music rang throughout Miss Grace’s home. The pictures on her mantle rattled and a frame fell onto the ground. Miss Grace’s daughter’s attention finally broke free from the television. She rushed to pick up the fallen photograph. As she picked it from the floor, she turned it over to see a smiling young man and young woman with a sleeping baby tucked in their loving arms. Miss Grace’s daughter fondled the gold frame and gazed lovingly at the captured moment. She kissed the photograph and turned to her mother to share a memory the photo evoked. Her face went pale. It was too late, she had missed the band and all its glorious music. Miss Grace’s daughter rushed to the bed wailing “mother.” Her grievous voice was drowned out by the angelic notes circling through the air and down the street.

They were halfway down the street by now. Miss Grace danced with a childlike glee, her hair now long and flowing behind her. She paused for a moment thinking about her daughter and hoped to be in the marching band that would one day play for her. But not anytime soon. 

Miss Grace leaped and skipped to the front of the band. She danced by the home of Harold Slim, slowing down to peak in their front window where she saw Shannon Slim removing bread rolls from the oven. The smell of dinner time filled the air. Harold snatched a roll from his mother’s tray and popped it into his mouth before she could protest.

The music continued as Miss Grace passed by Mr. Lopez who was diligently raking his front lawn. She laughed and leaned over to pluck a dandelion. She puffed at its fuzzy head, aiming it at Mr. Lopez’s yard and discarded the stem. 

The band’s music soared and surrounded the band. Miss Grace watched Mrs. McKittrick nibble on her pie while sitting on her porch. She sighed and gazed at Mrs. McKittrick who glowed in the orange hues of the evening light.

“I love it here,” Miss Grace whispered. “It’s beautiful. Everything. Every detail.”

The drum major appeared behind her, touching her shoulder lightly. “I know. But you haven’t seen where we practice yet.” His words comforted Miss Grace and she nodded. 

“Finish out strong,” she said, tugging her lips together into a confident smile. The drum major handed her his baton and Miss Grace clasped her fingers around it with a readiness to lead. 

Glory, Glory, Hallelujah – His Truth is Marching On

When the band came to town, Miss Grace joined them. 

Main photo by Curioso Photography on Unsplash