My son sits at his grand piano,
back erect, fingers in place on glistening white keys,
unstirred by sounds of lawn mowers, dogs barking,
and airplanes flying above.
I plop down on our green velour sofa to listen,
yet embarrassed don’t recognize his tunes,
or names of all those songs he’s created.
I’m yanked into my seventeen-year-olds world;
as he fills our high-ceiling room with his magic.
Five songs later, he motions me to his stool,
smiles into my eyes and places my fingers on his keys.
I am paralyzed, tone deaf, and can’t recall a note.
I don’t want his spot. I tell him I’d rather listen.
I return to our sofa, where I sit like a sponge
and a faucet at the same time. My tears hold me hostage
as my son’s music soothes me.
How will I ever thank him for the joy he brings to my life
and his perfect posture I pestered him with as a child?