Notes from 02.21.11

My Father was a Shofar.
He was born from the crude horn of a ram.
Then softened, flattened, and polished into a beautiful instrument that was complex to play yet obtusely simple in it’s construction.
An object equally spiritual and utilitarian.
Though often silent, when called upon his sonic force brought down the walls of Jericho, signaled the New Year, and made the monsters under my bed go away.
They were long deep sounds without melody whose notes still resonate long after they’ve been played.