When I first heard jazz on the trumpet, I melted on the inside. My eye shut as I imagined myself on a giant stage at some sort of nightclub barely lit by any lights. There were other musicians playing on instruments like an old rusty saxophone and long dulled trombones. The trumpet player on the stage wore a tuxedo, but instead of a tie, the man wore a red bowtie that's clashed against his fancy tuxedo. His fingers would move slowly then swiftly without any real warning. He didn't smile, but you could see a gleam in those dark orbs of his that shows his love for music. He removes the trumpet from his lips then begins to sing in a dark voice that could only be described as the voice of a smoker. I figured he must smoke behind the scenes because it's that era where people didn't know that cigarettes and cigars slowly kill lungs.

   The music fades as I come back to reality. I'm no longer in the nightclub, but in the comforts of my own home. With my trumpet on my lap, I slowly slipped off my headphones while looking around my darkened room. I smiled before placing them back on my head to sink into the wonders of Jazz.