Our friend is gone, forever. That's the horror of
death. No matter what philosophers or religion might tell. It's the
void, the nothing. Looking at him through the Snowy-white glass,
noting he was not there, I tried to sing the song we used to play.
But his trumpet would not follow and the instruments we brought, we
didn't play. Somehow you must be black for that. Or gypsy.
He once told me he wanted to be a writer. He was
encouraged by teachers and family, particularly by his father. He was
good at it. But one day he realized life kept passing by, while he
was writing. He then bought a trumpet.
There you go, dear Jesus, with Gillespie and all the
gang, for eternal jamming. We love you, we will miss you. Play loud
and shine!
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