I felt like my wrists were going to fall off, to snap at the joints and fly into the stratosphere never to be seen again. Still, I chucked that rifle into the air again and again, never minding that it bruised my hands and my ego, and even, on one occassion, my face. But still the worst was at my wrists, with their bumps and lumps caused from thumps of wood against flesh. Involuntary tears leaked from my eyes. I kept going and going, until the end of practice, never minding that it hurt. Nobody noticed. Nobody cared.
When we walked back up, though, to pack up and put our things away, you saw and came over to me. You wrapped your fingers, cool from clutching a trumpet, around my wrist, careful for the bits that were purple. They felt good--better than good.
"Next time," you scolded, "be more careful."
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