The first words out of the bandleader’s mouth: “We thought we left this heat behind in New Orleans.” He’s not complaining, more like making note of the working conditions, reminding us of his heritage. The crew was laying out a maze of ropes outside the Meadow Tent to facilitate the hot-air balloons’ elephantine act of rising, still hours away, and it was too early for the crowd to slip into a summertime groove; just me and a few dozen brass band nerds waiting for the show. As usual, the crowd was mostly white in stark contrast to the dozen black men on stage, ranging in age from sixteen to sixty, though the line between us slack and eager to be rubbed out. It’s been a year since our accident, an endless span of what everyone calls “recovery”—and we aren’t as healed as our friends would like, though we are on our feet, wobbly but on them. My first foray back into live music since the crash, I stay off to the side as the small dance floor fills to bursting. How to describe those first few songs? A band warming up, nothing special: first show of the day, still sleepy from the drive, horns groping around in the dark for each other’s sound. It feels like an old gym coming to life, its floodlights flicking on in a random grid, one fuse box switch at a time—the sacred space of hoops now alit—and by the third or fourth song (“Saints Go Marchin’ In”) the tent is spilling out on both sides and brimming with brio. I’ve shuffled up a few steps on sore feet—half in, half out. It’s hard now, one year out from the head-on impact, not to take a quick inventory of that we’ve lost then gradually struggled to regain—the ability to walk, to take care of our boy without an army. It’s a long list, the only pleasure coming in crossing off each item. But I’m not worried now as the lead drummer counts off the tempo and the band breaks into “Feel Like Funkin’ It Up” and the crowd pushes deeper in and begins to groove. My own arms come off my sides, fledgling wings, and here you are, all smiles, our boy under my hands, leaning in; some space opens and our little family dances as the trumpeter stomps out counter-rhythm to the beat, and all of us let loose our worries in torrents of sweat, and I feel more reborn than anyone ever can expect, as impossibly light and majestic as the hot-air balloons that will soon float up and up and away.