Banda | Estoy En La

He did—a clumsy, angry thwack. The sound was dead, flat. The band stopped. Mateo winced.

“You’re hitting at her,” she said. “Hit with her. You think rhythm lives in your hands? No. It lives in your ribs. In the space between your heartbeats. That space is the band. Find it.” Estoy en la Banda

Leo wanted to be made for something. Anything. He did—a clumsy, angry thwack

He swung.

“Again,” said Abuela Carmen.

That Friday, Leo marched at the back of the procession, la abuela strapped to his chest. He was sweaty, nervous, and utterly unworthy. But when the moment came—when the float carrying the Virgin of Hope swayed around the corner and Mateo lifted his flugelhorn to begin “Estoy en la Banda” —Leo didn’t count. He didn’t think. He just felt the pause between heartbeats. Mateo winced