“Dad, wake up”, I said, firmly grasping my father’s lifeless hand. Throughout the day, the nurses frequented his room, monitoring his condition, waiting for the solicitous doctor to return with inspirited words that would garner us hope. “Dear, let go”‘, gently pronounced. With an ailing heart, I unclenched my hand. My face grew heavier as I continued to cry; my throat burned with dejection. Presumably, the last sounds he heard were the faint, waning sounds of an old saxophone. However, no one we knew owned one. At his funeral, the fetor of death infiltrated the noses of the attendees. Suddenly, the sound of the saxophone found its way back to me. “Mommy, I hear the saxophone again”, I cried. In no time, the atmosphere of the church was vexatious. We met with the testatrix to read the dour will. I had received my dad’s old sax, contained in an derelict burlap sack. To this day, though, an unsettling, dense aura wards me away from it. Honestly, I am frightened. Silence will make the shrill notes play longer.