Outside of the band room, hung on beige cinder block walls, is a gold picture frame collecting 40 years worth of dust.
Film photographs of teenagers in clunky marching band outfits line the paper inside the frame. Each with feathered hair and a teenage dream, their names are written in maroon to spell out the Class of 1985 band.
Looking closer, a dirty blonde stands solemnly beside her peers. Her whole life is summed up to the crimson ink on the page: Sara Penley, flute.
Except, these people weren’t only her peers. At least to her they weren’t.
They weren’t only her peers when they signed up for band together in fourth grade, when they sat in the band room, filled with nervous excitement, before trying out every instrument to see what they wanted to play for the next chapter of their lives.
They weren’t only her peers when, alive and full of energy, they practiced marching around the block at Vance Middle School to learn what to do and how to stay in line.
They weren’t only her peers when they quickly learned their freshman year about WST (George Wegner Standard Time), meaning they needed to arrive at least 15 minutes early for every practice and event.
They weren’t only her peers when they would load into buses to travel to band camp in Cleveland, South Carolina and would complain about having to come back home.
They weren’t only her peers when they went out to dinner last week like they do every couple of months. Or when they went to Rhythm and Roots together and felt the same feeling in their chest they’ve had for four decades.
They weren’t only her peers when they “existed together” for nine years.
They were never just her peers. They are her family.