So, I was reflecting on what will happen when I graduate high school, even though I still have two years. I just thought I would post this, because I thought it was fairly poetic.

__________________________________________

My band.

The simplest words in the history of my life, yet they have so much meaning. "My band" is not just something I say when bragging. It isn't just something a drum major says when explaining to another how they do something. It has more meaning, a life behind.

My band.

I've been in marching band, well, in high school, for only two years. Yet whenever I reflect on the time I will leave the school I know as a second home, I see a band that belongs to me. I look at their faces and feel pride.

I look at those who have joined since I joined, those who have graduated. I look at those who were there before me, towering over me with their seniority. I've seen what it is like to be new to the band, to see other people and believe it is their band. Bt it isn't their band. It is our band. It is my band.

But what about when I leave? Will it still be my band, or will it belong to those younger then me?

I plan on going on to college and being in band there, and then going on to being a band director. But will my college band be the same? Will my new band as a director be different then being in the band? Will I ever get the feeling of "my band" again? Years later, will I return, and look at the old pictures strung up on the wall, the sun reflecting off the golden buttons of our green and black uniforms with the gold lightning bolts, our eyes squinting in the sunlight, and remember my band? Will I remember the faces of old friends, old enemies? Will I see the eyes of the younger members, and think to myself what they were like when I left?

To those younger members, to all those who will follow my footsteps, I send you a message.

Though everyone you have looked up to has left, you are still there. Now, people look up to you, when you once looked up to us. They see in your eyes wisdom. You see in their eyes what I saw in yours. A mixture of fear, excitement. One day, when you are gone, you will look at the pictures you were once part of. Someday, you will tell someone what I tell you now.

This is your band now. Your hands will continue to mold the band, your strength pulling the scare and the nervous from their pits. Those of us who have left have no control over your band.

It is your band.

Your band.