Of the many musical instruments I possess, ranging from those with strings to those with valves, one in particular becomes more and more special to me with each day that passes. A 1949 King trumpet, aged and rusted to its core, once belonging to my grandfather is my prized possession. Once played in the 33rd army band, as it sat second chair, it is more than just a brass instrument. Though I’m a woodwind kind of girl, I have a love for music that surpasses any love I might have for food… yeah, impossible I know. My grandfather began my musical journey through the constant nagging. “Matt,” he would always call me. “I bought you that guitar, now let’s learn to play!” Always wanting my life to be beautifully colored with the sounds of Tommy Dorcey, and Louis Armstrong, Grandfather would always tell me of his younger days, dazzling the ladies with his handsome uniform, and his freshly-waxed trumpet at his side. This trumpet, though browned with aged, no longer the crisp gold it was during his glory days, is a reminder of his dreams for me. Though my grandfather is no longer present in the physical world, his presence is showing in my everyday life. During my late night music jams, I still pull out his old pal, and begin to dream of the adventures they two must have taken. More than the rust, and more than the tears that always rain on its old green case, the trumpet that rests on my bed is my grandfather. Old, but wise. Used, but not worn. Holding its delicate valves, and running my fingers over the engraved metal, this is where I feel my grandfather. With the sound his voice becoming more faint, this rusty trumpet is all I seem to have left of my best friend.