The Trumpet's Song

There was a young boy who learned music from a very young age. When he was fifteen he got his first trumpet as a birthday present. It was a shiny brass trumpet, beautiful beyond compare. He loved it more than anything and played the trumpet in the school band often. Whenever he would blow the magic trumpet the crowd would be amazed at its wonderful sound, and would give him a cheer when it was done. Soon however, war broke out, and he was conscripted into the army where he became the bugler boy of the regiment. He would call the troops to attention each morning, and would summon them to all their duties. He would march them to the parade ground where the Chief would address the men and talk them into courage for the coming battle. And during the war itself it often called the troops to arms for the fight ahead. Giving them strength, courage and bravery to make war each day. After the war was won he went home and looked for work, for now he had to earn a living by himself. But no work was to be found so he played his trumpet in the band of a small street cafe, earning himself a small living by doing so. The customers loved to hear the band play, and loved its magic brass trumpet most of all. He could carry the most beautiful tune with it and the melody was indeed divine and beyond compare. But the owner of the restaurant soon spotted the young man’s talent for business, and made him a partner in the business. He no longer played his lovely trumpet, but worked hard at growing the small business into a big and wealthy one. Another trumpet player now joined the band to replace him, and all of his time was spent at making money for the shop. He married and had some dear children and still he worked hard to support his family. The trumpet was stored away in his cupboard now and soon it was all but forgotten. The years passed the one after the other, and only sometimes on a Sunday afternoon the man would take it out of its black leather case and play his favorite song all alone in the garden. Then he would put it away again and soon forget about it as business went on. When he was an old man he retired and his loving wife passed away some time later. The old trumpet still lay in his cupboard and though he was to old to play it now, still he remembered the good old days of his youth fondly. The days of magic and music when he would delight the crowd with his brilliant music and song. The trumpet lay there all alone and forsaken never knowing what the future would bring. Surely he would never be played by his master ever again, as the old man grew old and frail, and passed away himself some sweet summer morning. The trumpet wept and missed his dear player most of all. Gone were the days of magic, music and enchantment. Gone was his love for life. Gone was his dear friend and only master. Yet, at the man’s funeral, as the coffin was lowered into the the grave, the old man’s grandson took it out and played the last call for the great man himself. The music traveled over the fields and valleys and the crowd shed a tear for the great man’s last breath. The boy could play as beautifully as the old man himself. And played a long and lonely tune for its master one last time. The man and his beautiful brass trumpet had come full circle, and never would the world hear its lovely melody again. True love is the only true beauty that there is in life. It was the trumpet’s last song after all.