My brother decided to play bagpipes when he was twelve years old, and found a Scotsman who lived nearby to teach him how to play. He joined a student band and practiced the chanter part of the pipes every day. pulling it out to play a little tune. His passion for ancient music tapped into courageous inner blood coursing through him.
Bagpipes became part of our household soundtrack, little chanter ditties, familiar tunes we all knew and loved. Nobody else we knew played pipes, and musical poetry filled the air when my brother walked and played them.
Decades after he died when I listen to pipes I remember how my brother strolled. grooving with an ancient sound. I feel the pipes in my bones more than other music in the world. Pipes remind me that when I was young, brotherly love was real.
I don’t have explanations for what happens after we die. I don’t know or presume to know what’s next, but music transcends it all.