If you miss your corps and you’re sad, clap your hands
Some of us can’t go home again until next summer.
Some of us can’t go home again until we’re better, or find the money, or convince our parents, our professors, our directors, ourselves.
Some of us can’t go back; we all walked down to the field for one big shared birthday party, and we were done celebrating that twenty-second year they handed us a piece of paper- a parting gift that says “never again.”
Some of us don’t even have a home to look back on; not any more. The music has ended.