MY MOTHER’S CHILDHOOD MELODY

There was always music

In my mother’s childhood home

Arriving with a fiery taste

In the air circling the crystal set

Her grandfather had built

Which sizzled with arias from New York

Orchestras in Chicago and Pittsburgh

And static almost all the time

Accompanying the syncopation

Of her father’s dancing feet.

Operas and symphonies spun

Out their magic lure

From treasured 78rmp records

Laid carefully beneath a needle

To release the secrets

Hidden in their grooves.

The music shared the room

With the smell of rosin

On the bow of her brother’s violin,

Her grandad’s fiddle,

Her father’s mandolin.

Her own fingers on piano keys,

Or her mother’s so gentle touch

Moving a piano’s hammers

Striking perfectly tuned strings

Painting the air with melody