umbrellas and a sax

The Red Sox were losing to the Brewers. The cat slept at the bottom of my bed, wrapped up in a ball on his side, breathing softly and occasionally uttering a sleepy grumble. I sipped a Sam Adams and watched as the Red Sox gathered hits but couldn't convert them into runs. I had my headphones on; it was about 2am. My phone refreshed my Twitter feed and I saw the news and the ballgame drifted away. Clarence Clemons, the Big Man, had died following a stroke.

I wrote this almost two years ago, still giddy from the gig. Two years later and the image of the sax under guard still shines bright in my mind: the mass of beautiful, twisted metal, polished so that it almost glowed in spite of the still-lingering rain clouds, requiring not one but three guards - one just to hold the umbrella. The man himself: immense, clad entirely in black and with all the presence and more mystery than the Boss himself. I considered myself lucky then and privileged now. Rest in peace, Big Man.

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