The Magic Returns | Teen Ink

The Magic Returns MAG

By Anonymous

     Fifth story of a five-star hotel, and the river flows slowly next door. The saxophone on the street corner matches the steady rhythm of the water, and just as the brass instrument twirls its highest twitter, a barge bellows to the tourists who love seeing the large boat sneak under the bridge and block out the entire east side of the river. An Irish pub invites a raucous group of river walkers to its oak doors and its French Quarter appearance. Kelly green and burnt orange pull at the white strip as the wind brings in the ghosts who drink to the dusk. Laughter rises like creeping vines through the day, like vines that creep toward the wood and iron balconies of crumbling brick buildings as the moon does when darkness descends.

A new midnight musician arrives, challenging the sounds of sidewalk traffic and the old saxophone whose melodic tones still resonate through antique windowpanes from the street corner. This musician lifts his trumpet and plays so loudly that he is forced to tilt his chin to lilt his taunting tones toward the clouds. The trumpet catches the attention of the night, and flirts with the neon streetlights and the sparkle from the fleet of fishing boats. The musician lifts the trumpet even higher as the song jumps an octave. He lifts it so high that it almost pulls the Spanish moss off the oaks, and the stars down from their celestial heaven. And the stars are right there with us, in the eyes of every man or woman who passes and shoots a starry smile our way.

Bella Notte. The smells of horses and cobblestones are coquettish when mixed with the song of the sea. The water of the river, tainted with the sweet sourness of salt, embeds itself in the very grains of the grout that spread hundreds of years ago. The clanking of horse shoes on the river road allude to the ancient rock’s age. When they clang, the ties tie us back to the past when streetcars rattled over the metal strips that were guides down the street bordered by crooked niches that crowded the cobblestone.

In this city, this seemingly ancient city, it is easy to let the river pull you to another time, to let the river lull you to a quiet calm as a trumpet’s song meanders through the moss and reaches every ear. Meanwhile, a saxophone finds its velvet pillows and a final carriage passes over the sleepy streets, yet, the trumpet’s silky melody continues and accompanies the river’s drift downstream.

The sun begins to rise, and lonely ghosts hitch a ride toward the heavens until the moon and the magic return to this Southern city.

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