Remembering Matt.

Last night I was bored, watching TV at work, going through my camera phone to assign photos to various phone numbers. Everyone was in their appropriate place: Tom was at Tom's number, Grandma was at Grandma's number. Then I arrived at this picture:

Instinctively I went to assign it to his number, and I stopped in my tracks. My heart felt like it was being held in a tight fist. Not only did it not matter where I assigned his picture because I would never get to call him again, but his cell phone number was altogether obsolete. I looked at the last picture I ever took of him, a few months before he died, with his soft, sloping, kind eyes and gentle, humble smile, and realized I would never hear my phone ringing and pick it up to find that picture on the display.
Oftentimes on the subway I'll hear a trumpet player on the platform. The doors open for just a few moments at a station, and a few bars of music, brought to life by the distinctive tone and aural texture of a trumpet, float in, and whatever I was saying or doing is rendered meaningless. This happened a couple of months ago when I was with Dustin, and right in the middle of a sentence I started crying uncontrollably. I think of him playing alongside my stepdad in Arizona, or playing at parties when the birthday cake came out, or playing "Lullaby" at my cousin Amy's baby shower. I remember he said just before he died that he felt restless, couldn't sleep at night, and would play scales for hours by moonlight. He said it comforted him, soothed him. I can scarcely hear the sound of a trumpet without it bringing tears, just remembering how wonderful he was and how much I miss hearing his horn.