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Deep in the heart of the Windy City resides the Chicago Orchestra Hall. My high school band was lucky enough to perform on the stage that was blessed by countless music legends. Black dresses and tuxedos crowded backstage while staccato notes of enthusiasm danced around. Our exhausting weeks of imagining how the music would bounce off the high ceilings and the lavish architecture was finally over. One step on the stage was all it took for me to gape in awe. Lights glared back at me, microphone wires criss-crossed in webs, and the dome-like ceiling towered over me. I immediately noticed the expectant faces of the audience. All was silent. It was so silent that one could actually hear the silence, as if the audience was in harmony. With a quick, allegro rhythm, I gripped my French Horn tighter and strode across the wooden floor to my chair. I spotted my parents and sister in the balcony. They ecstatically waved back at me. Instead of smiling, my face fell. Where's Grandma?

My grandma adored classical music. She would turn on her stereo and listen to anything from Mozart to my concert recordings while she went on with her daily business. Sometimes she'd just rest her petite body in her rocker and sway to and fro, soaking in the development of Beethoven's Symphony No. 9. Every time I'd visit her, she would reminisce about my days of playing 'Hot Cross Buns' in my elementary school gym. She also had a knack for making me feel like the lead chair in my band. She showered me with attention and never missed an opportunity to praise me. I remember her being the one who handed me a bouquet of red roses after every concert and told me I was amazing, even if my performance was a train wreck. My grandma was like the little Energizer bunny; she just kept going with a smile. Not a single concert went by without her presence and an encouraging hug.

I knew all too well that she wouldn't miss this once-in-a-lifetime concert spectacular. After my performance, I hugged my family and interrogated them on their opinions of the concert, However, one thought kept buzzing in my mind: Where is Grandma? In the car, I finally popped the inevitable question.

My mom hesitated for a moment, carefully contemplating her words. "She caught pneumonia and her doctor told her she can't leave the house."

Dread began to boil in my heart. "Is she okay?"

"Yes. We're trying to get her to go to the doctor, but she insists that she's fine."

"Can I call her?"

"Of course."

As fast as staccato sixteenth notes in cut-time, I dialed her home number. To my relief, her voice cracked on the phone. "Hello?"

I spent half an hour describing every minute detail of the concert. She patiently listened to my amateur review of the music. I could easily imagine her sitting in a dining room chair and twirling the phone cord. I told her I hoped she would get better and how much I loved her. With one last cadenza, I hastily added, "Since you didn't make it to this concert. you'll just have to see my last spring concert. I'll still be playing the same songs!"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," she replied.

That was the last time I heard her voice. A few days later, she had a heart attack and died in her home. The second chance was gone. She will never hear my spring concert. I'll never again feel the satisfaction of giving her a truly memorable performance. Sometimes there aren't any codas, a second time to try again.