For as long as I can remember, I wanted to play the drums. Everyone I knew was learning an instrument. My friends at school, my sister, my parents, and even my grandmother were practicing the ukulele. But I wanted to play the drums. I wanted to be not only the backbone of a song but the driving force. As soon as I was old enough my parents got me lessons. With my sister taking singing and guitar lessons, and our two closest family friends learning base and guitar, it was not long before we formed a band. We would pick a couple of songs to learn, around four or five, and spend a couple of months working on them. It would always be covers; Queen, Arctic Monkeys, Gwen Stefani, and anything else we thought would be fun. I’d spend hours practicing every day after school, and it became a core part of who I was. We’d perform every couple of months with the other bands in our program, and I’d invite as many family members and friends as I could. I was proud of myself, and I was proud of our band. But when COVID hit, the program shut down, and it was up to us to ensure we kept playing. We were dedicated at first, but over that year we lost more and more steam and started meeting up less and less. Without a performance, what were we even practicing for? During the weekdays after school, why should I spend my time practicing for a lesson I’ll never have? The nail in the coffin was my sister's graduation. Her leaving meant we’d have to find a new singer who lived in our neighborhood. We met up one last time out of nostalgia without Ella (my sister), but it was just not the same. Nick and Chuck left for college the year after Ella, leaving me and my dusty drums alone in the city. Over time, I’ve gotten rusty, and the talent I was proud of has slipped away.