Children's Concerts This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine.

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   "This is good, Daddy," I said, mouth full, face covered with creme and powdered sugar.

"How can you tell? It looks like you completely missed your mouth," my father teased.

We were sitting in a doughnut shop in Philadelphia on a bitter-cold Saturday morning.

"Are you ready?" he asked after my hands and face are cleaned up.

"Uh-huh."

I jumped off the stool, buttoned up my winter coat, and took my dad's gloved hand. We walked out the door toward the Academy of Music.

After what seemed like hours of slipping and sliding, we finally came to the building with candles instead of street lights. Dad bought steamy-hot soft pretzels and we struggled up the icy steps.

It was warmer in the Academy, but loud. We were seated under the balcony and old people in red suits kept telling me not to eat inside.

After we found our seats and got settled, my grandpa Maresh came from backstage to visit.

"Hi, Gampa," I said.

"Hello, Leslie. Will you watch

for me?"

"Uh-huh. Good yuck, Gampa."

"Thank you. Ann Louise and Johnny should arrive soon," he said with a wink. We waved good-bye.

My cousins Ann Louise and Johnny came later; after the concert was half over, and after I had fallen asleep in my father's lap.

I still go to those Children's Concerts. Still hold my dad's hand. Still get soft pretzels. Still eat in front of those annoying ushers. And still expect Ann and John to come on time for once.

Only now the donut shop is a bank. The city blocks seem to fly by. And my grandpa Maresh's bass playing is only a faint memory in my head.

Now, I save my dreams for the ride home. c


This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.






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