The Memories He Remembers p.1

Memories he remember, an Introspection.

He remembers the day he finally got away from his clarinet lessons. He didn't particularly hate the clarinet, his friends admired him for it, he thought, and often that was reason enough to play. His notes were lackluster, and his sound tiring as if there was too much clarinet and not enough air. He would stack the pieces of the clarinet one on top of the other, deftly rotating the joints to match with each other, eyeing as if a connoisseur the alignment of the mouthpiece with the body and confidently, his wet reed against the cool black mouthpiece. Smack, it was a satisfying smack of the reed which he then adjusted, twitched with OCD until the black sun crept only so slightly over the wooden hill. He liked this part, it was easy, he had done it many times. He didn't particularly hate the sound of the clarinet, in fact he would come to love it in his later years and everything about it, but he hated his sound because it wasn't perfect, and how could it be, he hardly practiced.