NOVEMBER 30TH, 1983

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     My tongue was strapped to my reed, my thoughts swirling. My bedroom door was wide open and I heard my mother faintly on the phone.
"Her eyesight is failing her. I don't know what to do," her voice cracked into a sob. Quietly, I shut my door, not willing to hear any more.
     I close my eyes. Will this how it be from now on? I set my embouchure and played. My fingers danced across the instrument. To my surprise, it was fairly easy. But I wouldn't be able to read sheet music like this. I flickered my eyes open, and a small tear rolled down my cheek.
I just want to play. It's all I want.
      I set my oboe down and threw my face against my pillow. I could find a new hobby.
I can't do art. I can't play sports. I can't even cook.
I propped myself up. I don't need something new. I'm going to be a musician. I'll work hard until my vision goes away. I'll study whatever I need to study. I picked up my oboe.
This is my hobby.