The last drop of sweat my body has to offer slowly falls from my forehead onto my two-year-old neatly pressed black concert dress. In the first oboist's chair I sit, horn neatly propped in my lap, as I wait for the conductor to walk onto stage. My slightly trembling hands make physical the instinct to run, hide, offer some excuse and exit stage left.
My mind flashes to the earlier part of this day, filled with practice and reed-making, in preparation for the moments about to unfold. …
