The gray office where I work carries the monotony of an unchanging landscape; the constant hum of printers, the incessant tapping of keys, and the distant buzz of computers form the soundtrack of my working hours. Yet inside me, a restlessness awakens the moment the clock signals the end of the day.
As evening falls and I make my way from the office back to my modest refuge, I find in music an escape. I crank up the volume in my small living room, hoping that the vibrations will dispel my unease, that the clamor of the instruments will drown out the ceaseless echoes of memory. But every chord drags me back to the town—to those days when cobblestone streets and the murmur of celebrations made me feel truly alive.
Before the city lights smothered my days, there was a town called San Pedro. In the warmth of the afternoon, its streets were filled with the laughter of children and the scent of rain-soaked earth. I was ten years old, and I remember the cool echo of footsteps along narrow lanes, the reverberation of voices, and fragments of songs escaping from every house.
After finishing my chores and enjoying a meal at home, it was customary in the town to go out and play. Once our tasks were done, I would join Miguel, Esteban, and countless other children gathering in the street. Sometimes we were only three, and at other times we numbered more than forty—all running through the cobblestone alleys in a game that seemed to pick up right where the previous day had left off. The streets of my old home still held the dampness of recent rains, with puddles reflecting the sky and mud clinging stubbornly to our boots.
Those well-trodden paths, worn by the passage of countless feet, were the stage for our adventures. We ran without direction, deftly dodging neighbors who were out selling bread or atole, drying firewood, or simply sitting on the sidewalk chatting. The shouts, the commotion, and the laughter blended with the occasional call from a concerned mother, firmly urging her child, “Come on, it’s time for dinner!” These were moments of pure freedom—a time when streets, vacant lots, and even a humble courtyard became a world where play was the language.
With the imminent arrival of the patron saint festival, the town burst into life and color. Preparations spilled over from the most modest corners to the street stalls of local vendors offering clay pots, vibrant piggy banks, hats, shawls, and toys that ignited wonder in the eyes of both children and adults. Plazas filled with food and drink stands, while streets donned strings of lights and banners. The sounds of musical bands—trumpets and drums intertwining with the vendors’ shouts and the occasional burst of fireworks—created a symphony that seemed to revive the very soul of the town.
At the heart of it all was San Pedro, the patron saint, around whom the celebrations revolved. That festival was not only the occasion for first communions—a rite I was to experience the following year—but also a time when the community united in a shared faith and tradition. I recall the thrill of riding amusement rides that traveled from town to town, the suspense of playing darts, or competing in impromptu soccer matches set up in the plaza.
In those days, the hope of earning a few extra pesos—to buy a sweet, a toy, or simply indulge a craving—drove us to help our parents with any chore. The streets transformed into a procession of parades, with musical bands singing melodies that merged with the people’s clamor. Processions, bearing sacred images and lit votive candles, wound their way through the town center. In those moments, the atmosphere grew almost sacred: the prayers of the faithful mingled with the distant rumble of drums and trumpets, creating an ambiance that felt suspended in time.
The incense smoke curled upward in spirals while palms and flowers carried by devout believers traced delicate paths in the air. I remember the familiar faces alongside the new ones amid the revelry, the warmth of sincere greetings, and the bittersweet melancholy of farewells. The bustle of the crowd, the murmur of conversations, the clinking of coins, and the aroma of traditional foods formed a mosaic of moments that, despite the distance, still pulse within me.
Each procession was a spectacle reminiscent of ancient Egyptian pharaohs borne aloft on golden thrones, as described in the old history books I once leafed through—imbuing the scene with majesty and mystery. Doña María, during catechism classes, solemnly explained how the patron saints of neighboring communities came to pay homage to San Pedro, attend the afternoon mass, and reaffirm their commitment to our parish. That explanation, repeated so many times, became etched in my memory. The image of the church—with its stone façade and stained glass windows capturing the twilight—appeared in my mind as if revealed in a moment of epiphany. It was as if every stone and every arch held the essence of an inescapable past, a faith that, despite the years, continued to beat deep within me. And amid this cascade of memories, the figure of San Pedro loomed large and imposing.
I vividly remember the measured cadence of prayers, each word a link in an unbreakable chain. My young heart filled with a reverent fear—a blend of awe and anxiety—at the thought that this power, embodied in San Pedro’s image, not only protected us but also watched over us with stern vigilance. Yet, something always soothed these feelings: music.
My mother and Doña María, so devoted to the church hymns, seemed to wield their voices as instruments of peace. I began mimicking their intonations, learning the lyrics of the hymns that resonated through the sacred nave, seeking solace for my fears in every note. When I tried to join the church choir, I soon discovered that my voice did not conform to the discipline demanded by those liturgies. My tone—clumsy and timid—clashed with the gentle harmonies of the others, and amid apologies and understanding glances, I was gently set aside.
That exclusion stung unexpectedly, but it also ignited a determination in me never to abandon music. I refused to let the memories of my childhood and the church be confined to the silence of rejection. Then, on an afternoon when the procession had already reached the church doors and parishioners were filing in for mass, I noticed the members of the band sitting outside to rest.
I hesitantly approached them, timid yet driven by a newfound resolve. At first, they were skeptical.
“It’s not the same, kid,” they told me, their eyes a mix of compassion and curiosity.
“Here, you play, you practice a lot, and sometimes it’s very tiring. It’s not just about standing inside singing; you have to move wherever needed, carry instruments, walk while playing—and the pay isn’t much, especially when you’re just starting.”
That honesty struck me hard, but rather than discouraging me, it sparked the beginning of a new dream.
One of the band members—a young man with sincere eyes and a trumpet in hand—said, “If you want, we’ll teach you, but you’ll have to learn slowly and, above all, get your own instrument.”
That offer filled me with hope. The idea of belonging to a group, of finding something in music that could be mine, became a beacon in the midst of life’s storm. They didn’t offer me a place in the spotlight; instead, they asked that I help out—carry instruments like trumpets, trombones, clarinets, tubas—and be part of the machinery.
At first, every afternoon found me hauling boxes, carrying the base of the tambora, the snare drum, drumsticks, and everything needed for the performances. As I worked, the sound of my footsteps and the band’s murmur made me feel I belonged to something larger—a shared dream among musicians of all ages: to keep our minds occupied, balancing life between music, play, friends, and catechism. I wasn’t the star of the show, but every time I paused to listen, an inexplicable joy filled me. The vibration of the metal, the steady beat of the percussion, the interplay of notes, and the breath of each instrument merged into a concert that spoke directly to my soul.
I remember the first time I sat on a bench behind the stage in a small neighborhood plaza, watching the band rehearse before accompanying religious processions or enlivening the meals of laborers. The air was charged with nervous anticipation. I let the rhythm carry me—not to be the soloist, but to absorb every beat, every pause, every improvisation that revealed the true essence of melody.
Week by week, I learned bit by bit. The band taught me—something the choir never even attempted—that one doesn’t need a perfectly tuned voice to be part of it; what mattered was the desire to listen and grasp the essence of every son, every abajeño or jarabe they played—the melodies that resonated in our communities. Sometimes, as I lugged the instruments, they’d say, “Listen well, count the beats.” Gradually, I began to understand the difference between melodies and mere notes, so that in the future, if fate allowed it, I might even play one of those instruments—perhaps percussion—once I’d gained enough experience.
Afternoons with the band became a refuge amid the chaos of daily life. Every moment spent amidst the clatter of metal and the measured beat of percussion filled me with a sense of completeness. I would trudge home, my body tired but my mind alive with new melodies and snippets of conversation echoing with the sound of music. Those evenings, when the sweat of effort mingled with the scent of earth and rain, were the perfect balm to wash away any wandering thoughts.
I recall how, as I made my way to my room, the band’s murmur still echoed within me—as if each chord had taken up residence in a corner of my soul. Lying in bed, just before sleep, I’d mentally replay every moment: the vibrant sound of the trombone, the rhythmic beat of the snare, and the gentle chatter among those musicians—many of them weathered men sharing stories and advice with the simplicity of those who have learned to live through music. Every day left me with a new, lingering impression.
I believed summer would vanish in the blink of an eye, caught between endless commitments and the ceaseless comings and goings of the band, yet time itself seemed to defy us all, unwilling to yield its beat. As the end of June approached, the streets transformed; vendors hurriedly set up their stalls, and the corners buzzed with anticipation. Faces lit up with the promise of an imminent celebration, and laughter and conversation blended seamlessly with the constant hum of traditional music—a repertoire we all knew by heart.
The afternoons grew longer as the band seized every break to rehearse new pieces and refine the melodies handed down through generations. Amid hauling instruments and sharing silent, knowing glances, I learned to distinguish the nuances of each son: the gentle lull of a clarinet, the deep rumble of a tuba, and the energetic blast of a trombone that seemed to narrate tales of yesteryear.
The clamor in the streets intensified, and preparations for the patron saint festival reached their peak. Vendors distributed their wares with enthusiasm, banners fluttered in the wind, and every corner buzzed with a mix of anticipation and tradition. In the midst of this whirlwind, news arrived that marked a turning point in my journey: our band would be featured at the celebration of San Pedro’s day right from the early hours.
Somehow, this news did not excite me as much as I had hoped. On one hand, I could finally witness firsthand how everything was arranged for the first communion—perhaps it would be more enlightening than blindly trusting Doña María’s recounting. Yet on the other, being inside the church still felt unsettling, even if it were during the day and amidst many people. I decided not to overthink it; after all, I wouldn’t be alone, and perhaps I could even find a silver lining.
The day finally arrived. That Saturday, the town—or at least those who hadn’t attended the morning festivities—awoke to the sound of rockets, a band already setting the tone for the day’s activities, and the arrival of the bishop who was to officiate the mass. My mom had already prepared my newest shirt and made sure not a single rebellious hair escaped her comb; I had to look my best on this special day.
By ten in the morning, I was ready, standing beside my mother in the town’s main square, waiting for the musicians to arrive. The ceaseless movement of boys and girls preparing for their first communion was almost hypnotic: intricately styled hairdos, curls, floral headpieces, some girls even in veils, gloves, Bibles wrapped in bright white cloth, dresses adorned with flowers and other embellishments, broad-shouldered blazers, shiny black shoes, and an intoxicating cloud of perfume gradually settling before the church.
The band arrived. I bid my mother farewell and dashed off to help carry the instruments. We navigated through the crowd and entered the church, settling as close to the entrance as possible, waiting for everything to begin.
