It could be argued that, between the fact that my husband is a band director at a large high school and that all four of our children have either gone through or are going through the music department at the same high school, I have attended dozens —-maybe hundreds? —- of concerts.
I enjoy the concerts, but you could say that over the course of a couple decades, the novelty of attending these live performances has worn a bit thin.
But last week, I found myself in the school auditorium, sitting at the edge of my seat toward the front of the auditorium, waiting for my husband (and my son, who plays tuba), to take the stage for the winter band concert. I even arrived early, which was a departure from my typical routine: arriving one minute before the lights go down, then slipping into the back row.
This time, you could compare me to a kid waiting to see Santa at Christmas. I was so hyped up, in fact, that I uncharacteristically turned to the woman next to me to strike up a conversation. I just had to talk to someone!
After we introduced ourselves, the woman next to me looked up thoughtfully, as if she was trying to remember something.
“Did the kids have a winter concert last year?”
“I don’t think so,” I answered. “I’m pretty sure the students were still learning remotely at this time last year.”
“No, they were in person – weren’t they?”
We went back and forth like that, neither of us really sure where we had been 365 days previous, not trying too hard to remember, either. The question eventually just evaporated into thin air. Neither of us seemed too concerned to recall all the concerts we missed, or the school dances, art fairs, football games, or swim meets that didn’t happen.
It makes me wonder what we’ll remember of 2020, 2021, and even portions of early 2022. As mask mandates are being lifted and we are able to move around in our lives more freely again, I can feel a haze settling over our collective memories. I don’t care to remember the fear I felt in March 2020, or the uncertainty. I don’t want to talk about the friends and family we missed, the glitchy Zoom calls, and the toned-down birthday celebrations. (Remember car parades?)
The concerts have been new and exciting this year, and I don’t think it’s just my imagination. After the slog of the pandemic and the bone-weary way we endured shut-downs, masks, fear, and grief for loved ones who were sick or isolated, the return to live music at the high school has been a symbol of a magical rebirth. Even when the kids were masked this past autumn, their instruments muffled by bell covers, their playing had extra verve that I’d never heard before. The kids are happy to be back on stage, doing what they love. The parents in the audience are relieved to be back, listening and reacting to live music. The positive energy being tossed back and forth between the stage and the audience carries the joyful lightness of a beach ball bouncing to and fro between outstretched hands on a cloudless August day at the beach.
I am ready to move forward, without looking back. I am willing to forget much of the past two years, cherry picking only the “not so bad” parts of the pandemic to keep with me, like days at home with the family, or movie nights by the fireplace. The pandemic will become like a stone; a weight carried in our pockets, the once-rough edges smoothed over by grit and time.
