Photo by Ian Cooly (from Upsplash)

His Piano

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?