Bandages

bandages

The frigid November wind sent body-rattling chills down my spine. The band director yelled instructions into his microphone from his heated metal box above the bleachers. Despite the low temperatures, we practiced for hours. Days like these were what made me resent marching band. The conductor raised his hands, and we started to play. Mallets clutched in my hands, I did my best to hit each note. Every once in a while, I faltered. A mallet slipped from my grasp, and my hand bumped the edge of the keys.

One would never imagine the edge of a xylophone key would be so sharp. My hands were always so dry from the freezing air. The smallest nick of a key was like a paper cut, that small searing pain that hurts in a way that one can’t explain. So small, yet it stings so much. That usually happened about three times each rehearsal. My fingers were constantly covered in bandages.

Sometimes, I looked at my fingers and wondered why I did this year after year. But I knew, despite having to buy a new box of bandages every week, it would be worth it when our band brought home the state title. I did not want to look at the bandages on my fingers with resentment. I wanted to look at them, and feel inspired. So, I decided to change my attitude, and change my bandages. They may be made for children, but Mickey Mouse bandages have a way of lifting one’s spirit.

When we won the state championship at the end of the season, I did not even notice the cuts or the bandages wrapped around my fingers. They were a small sacrifice for what had been accomplished that day.

Over time, some of the little cuts eventually turned into little silver scars that shall forever remind me of the hours spent out in the chilling air. Now, years later, whenever I happen to get a paper cut or accidently catch my finger with a letter opener, my friends ask, “Have you been playing the xylophone, again?” and I smile.

—By Casey N., 19, Cincinnati