I last saw my cousin Kofi six years ago in Allentown, PA. at the Miller Symphony Center. I'd heard that Trucks, Tedeschi Band (TTB, formerly the Derek Trucks Band, or DTB) was in town.

They're an exciting, dynamic band that can play anything, and Kofi, being a co-founder and extraordinary composer and musician, played keyboards and flute, adding to their already impressive repertoire.

I went to see the performance, and it was stellar, as always.

When the show was over, Kofi did his thing with the fans, and when that passed we went into the tour bus. He offered me half of his Cuban sandwich, and we talked about the show, the music, his performance in particular, and life in general.

When the bus had to get parked, we went to his hotel room, and he saw my brief three seconds of internet presence playing bass on a performance I was part of in Easton, PA, taped for a Christmas special.

After he saw it, he beamed, and said to me, "You've come a long way."

Coming from him, it was more than validation.

We'd shared some time in my uncle's 'music room,' a space that ran wall to wall with vinyl from every genre, too extensive to ever go through in one sitting, and even more massive than my Dad's.

During the summer of '78, I spent long hours in that room, and spent some time with Kofi in there as well as we listened to music he'd written, music he was working on, and music he liked. It was my introduction to jazz fusion in particular, and I explored some jazz history on my own.

Kofi told me back then that a true musician 'listens to everything.' At first, I thought he meant music, but he really did mean everything. A car horn, birds, the pitch of voices, pipes hissing. His gift was so open, he was always literally surrounded by music: the music of life itself.

There were times, my aunt told me, that when he was off the road silence was all he craved, once to the point where she had to take down her wind chimes.

I would've liked to have seen him once again, and more than that, to play on the family project that was a dream of his, but he never seemed to have the time to make a run at it, and it never gelled together.

It would have been glorious, but I understand.

The music that he left behind is extensive, and has touched the lives of many.

The music that he hears now is just for him alone.

I hope he's enjoying it.

I can see him now, eyes closed, little tics of expression and appreciation flitting across his features, and I know exactly what he'd say if I were sitting beside him:

Listen...