My dad’s heavy footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor. “Erik,” he bellowed, standing in the living room archway, “Put that thing away. It’s time to go to hockey.” He strode away, the echo louder.

“It’s not a thing,” I mumbled. “It’s a trombone.” I gave my band instrument a final swipe, placed it in the case and snapped it shut. I was only allowed to clean it at home, not practice it. Music reminded Dad of Mom.

Like Mom, music floated through my head. Sometimes, I could see it, too, like rainbow waves hanging in the air.

Before Mom had died last spring, she plucked and bowed the double bass for the Metropolitan Symphony. I had the same dream.

After my hockey game, Dad made chicken and pasta. We ate in silence. I looked up and saw the blank look in his eyes. I knew his thoughts were for Mom. My heart felt empty without her, too.

“What did you think of the game, Dad?” I asked in hopes of bringing a smile to his eyes.

The look disappeared and the smile followed. “You played well, Erik. An easy one slipped by you, though,” he said filling his fork with pasta. “You looked a little pre-occupied.” He raised his eyebrows. “Were you?”

Should I tell him now, I thought. He won’t let me. But I have to tell him sometime. Maybe I should just give up on music. That would make Dad happy. Then, I’d never have to tell him. If I keep rambling like this, I’ll never get the chance to tell him. He knows what my dream is; he simply won’t talk about it. We used to talk about it with Mom.

Finally, I replied, “Yeah, a little.”

I looked into his eyes and continued. “Dad, I need to talk to you.” I wiped my palms along my jeans.

“It sounds important,” he said, cutting a piece of his chicken.

I nodded. “Dad,” I said. “I…I want to take double bass lessons.”

There I had said it.

He glared at me. With a lion’s roar, he said, “What in heavens name for?” He shoved a piece of chicken in his mouth.

“Because that’s what I want.” I didn’t know what to say next. Dad kept chewing and looked at his plate. I kept my eyes on him.

After what seemed like forever, he looked up, “And when do you plan to have time for this? Hockey takes up most of your free time.”

“Well.” I hesitated. “I have thought about that. Maybe I could play in the house league.” I hurried through the next sentence. “It would take up less time. Then I could do both.” My eyes dropped to my I untouched plate.

“What?” Dad said in a voice that sounded ready to boil over. “You have too much talent to play in house league.”

I looked up and saw Dad’s face turn red. His dream was for me to be a hockey star.

“Forget I ever said it, Dad.” I cut a piece of my chicken and stabbed it with my fork.

“Good.”

We ate the rest of our dinner without a word or a sigh.

Mom would’ve understood. She had said I could learn the double bass when I got bigger. But Dad never let me play any instrument at home now, even though he had loved the deep sounds Mom had pulled from her instrument. And when she used to sing, Dad said shivers would ripple through him. Sometimes I think I hear her now, when I’m alone. She used to say that other than Dad and I, music filled her life.

So for now I played only hockey.

At school I played the trombone because Mr. Wembley, my music teacher, had asked me. He knew I loved music and needed to share it and express it.

Dad did not say anything more about my dream. He pretended like the conversation never happened.

A week later, after one of my games, he said, “Great shut out, son. You seemed more focused.” He put his arm around my shoulder as we walked out of the arena into the parking lot. Stars flooded the clear winter night sky.

It ticked me off that Dad pretended to forget about our conversation. My anger bubbled inside me like thick soup. But not anymore. Here goes nothing, I thought.

“Dad,” I said using a voice stronger that I felt. “About my double bass lessons.” I stood almost as tall as him. “I have every intention of going after my dream.” I paused before I added, “Whether you like it or not.”

His dark eyebrows came over his eyes. “I thought we weren’t going to discuss it further,” he said, clipping his words. He stole his arm back from my shoulder.

“Maybe you weren’t,” I said, my voice becoming louder.

Dad looked around. He hated confrontation and most especially a public one.

“You will not play any instrument in my house,” he growled so only I could hear. “Ever.”

Every muscle in my body tightened. “Well, then I quit hockey, too,” I yelled and stormed away, heading for the road.

Dad did not come after me and he did not yell for me. I marched, my arms pumping the anger and fear out of my body. The fear of never achieving my dream, the dream I had seen in my mind ever since I was three. Playing the double bass flowed through me, a gift from Mom. Hockey had been my gift from Dad, but it didn’t belong to me like music did.

My march changed to a run. Tears slid to the edge of my face and down the side of my neck. I sobbed as I ran through the light, spread by streetlights and the glare of snow. I missed Mom. Most of all, I needed her right now.

Thirty minutes later I walked by Dad’s truck parked in the driveway. I kicked the tire with all my might, then snuck into the house, ignoring the pain in my toes. I tip toed to my bedroom and closed the door without a sound.

Once again my dad acted like we never had the conversation. So, I did too. I didn’t know what else to do. Hope seeped out of my pores. I kept playing hockey. If I quit hockey, like I said I would, I’d have nothing. I no longer brought my trombone home to clean. I did continue to practice at school, my passion being fed with minute amounts of music. I decided to go on as if hockey was my dream.

A few weeks later on my twelfth birthday, Dad came in and woke me singing his off key version of Happy Birthday.

“Thanks Dad,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “Don’t give up your day job.”

We both chuckled. “Not to worry, son,” he said with a smile. “Come with me.”

I followed him into the living room. I stopped and gasped almost choking on taking in so much air. My eyes widened and my chin dropped.

“It’s Mom’s!” A lump of disbelief sat in my throat.

“Yes,” Dad said. “And I know she would want you to have it.”

My fingers swept across Mom’s double bass.

I saw a tear roll down Dad’s cheek. I took a step toward him and hugged him. “Thanks Dad.” I knew this was a difficult decision for him.

I stepped back and we both wiped at our tears, and smiled.

“Erik, I know it took a lot of courage for you to tell me your dream,” he said with his hands on my shoulders. “And, what would be better than to follow in your mother’s footsteps.”

The End

Marianne Nielsen gets many of her writing ideas from her sons, age 11 and 8. She loves to write poetry, short stories and books for children in the hope of making a difference in the life of a child. Pieces of her work have been published and accepted by Three Leaping Frogs, Kid Magazine Writers, Wee Ones Magazine, Fandangle Magazine, Dragonfly Spirit and Story Station.

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