For Dad

Weekend mornings full of music.

My father sits at the upright piano and plays.

Brahms...Chopin...Mozart…

It was a part of my childhood,

my after-breakfast ritual of listening to

the music coming from the sitting room.

My room is directly above.

Even with the door closed, I could hear the tinkling high notes

and feel the base notes rumbling.

Some pieces were delicately lovely,

and I would sit cross-legged on my carpet.

Smiling, humming the tune.

Occasionally I would mentally correct

the wrong notes that were mixed

with grunts of frustration from downstairs.

Others were sad or angry. They were the most beautiful.

The emotion pulled on me until I lay on my floor,

the music drawing me down towards the room below.

Listening to the anxious melodie.

Feeling the shuddering chords.

Not moving as if my soul had left my body

and was dancing with the glorious sound.

I am completely still and immersed,

until…

a presto prelude breaks my trance.

I never said, then,

how much I loved those mornings.

How much I missed them as time went by and they grew fewer.

Many of the reoccuring tunes my father would play

were ingrained in my mind.

Even now, I remember.

I remember the pieces

and even learned a few of them,

trying to create the same effect.

Trying to recreate those moments,

those little moments you don’t know to cherish,

I didn’t realize I would miss so much.

But every time I hear them,

something sparks inside of me,

and they bring me back to those magical mornings.