The song began like all melodies, with a single note.

On this day, at this hour and this particular moment, the note was E flat.
Unaccompanied, the note betrayed key neither minor nor major, betrayed
no key at all. Beginning soft as breath and held, gaining strength and
definition with only the slightest quiver. Not vibrato in any premeditated
way, just the lightest jangle of the player's nerves, his humanity, his
heartbeat.

Then a fade.

As if the note were giving way to something greater than itself, greater than
its own simple purity and strength; weakening ever gently. Giving up quietly,
submitting to its own misinformed sense of futility, going back to earth, to
the simple clay of dumb beginnings and answerless endings. 

*

The player considers the note. He cannot sustain. There is no reason. But
the weakening tone is somehow unfinished. Like a spirited pup born too
soon, too small and too weak to live, knowing nothing of life but clinging to
it anyway; stupidly, stupidly -- fighting for its chance but not knowing why,
not understanding what sort of thing the chance is. Not knowing anything.

But knowing everything it will ever need to know. Its heartbeat struggles,
weakens, slows -- but does not stop. And then:

The fade is cut short, interrupted by a flurry of sound; a quick burst heading
skyward, headstrong and unexpected, defying the futility of the E flat,
exposing a minor key in the subtlest way, transforming the uncertainty of E
flat into a belligerent D. Holding. Dipping. Leaping and crashing -- but not
crashing.

Saved.

Gliding back down to... E flat again? No. A. Holding again -- but not holding.
Bending, wavering, wanting to climb too high but resisting -- spinning
somehow without moving up or down, pulling something from deep within
the player, bringing this thing out of the cornet, out through the cornet. All
this in a single note. A single, simple, ordinary note.

A.

But not A. Something about the A is different. It is a different world from
the world of the E flat entirely. Something about the way the player arrived
at the A. Not that it was discovered, but how it was discovered. Something
about the player's reaction to the note, the lightness of mind and intensity
of spirit it brought him for just a moment. Something about the way the
instrument reacted to the touch of his lips, the way it trembled in his grip.
The note was A.

A.

But not A.

This is where things change; completely, irrevocably.

But with change comes clarity. And with clarity comes understanding. And
with understanding comes questions. And with questions of this kind comes
a sort of madness.

E flat. Transition. A.

Questions.

The player stops.

He is drunk. He does not know what has happened. His mind is not ready
for the questions, he doesn't want to hear them. He reaches for his bottle of
train yard-grade gin but only knocks it to the floor; the bottle doesn't break
and he doesn't pick it up. He lays his horn on the pillow, he lays his head
next to the horn; it is inches from his eyes. His eyes are red, he feels tears
building there but doesn't let them through. They close. He strokes the
horn. He falls asleep. Gin drips to the floor, the bottle on its side.

He will not remember the A. He does not know that he has seen the face
of God.

Clarity. Questions. E flat. A.

Something is created but stillborn; promised but denied.

Awaiting rebirth, it has all the time in the world. What did not exist does now.
An abortion dumped in the river, letting go of life for now but knowing that
new life will come. In time.

Differently. Irrevocably.