I Was Left Behind. Now I Am Rhythm.
I was the off‑cut, the board that didn’t make the plan. Sun and dust settled on my grain until someone lifted me, ran a hand along my edges, and imagined sound where silence had lived.
They planed my scars and squared my corners. Glue and clamps held me steady; patient sanding found the warmth beneath the rough. Inside a simple box they tuned a voice—deep bass at my heart, crisp snap at my rim.
Now I sit in circles and classrooms. When small hands tap my face, the room breathes together. When a trainee finishes my last coat, their shoulders drop: “I made this.” I remind makers and players they matter.