Papa Whistles Symphonies

My father was a poor Brooklyn boy

Who could whistle symphonies.

Having had nothing,

He gave me everything

Which is to say,

Music.

I practiced Mozart on our new upright

In a bay window alcove

With a view of a hedge.

My father read the NY Times

Holding it aloft

A paper sail catching melodies

Which is to say,

He listened.

At 4 o’clock on Fridays

A patient teacher with knobby fingers

Taught mine to fly across the keys

I played Solfegietto until my fingers caught fire

Fur Elise until I wept

Which is to say,

My feet finally reached the pedals.

At fifteen I entered competitions

Collected little medals in a shiny black box

Skipped school to practice

Picked a dream bigger than a lifetime

Which is to say,

Being a musician.

For twenty years I toured the world

Eventually, I too learned to listen

Music said

Don’t push the tempo until it breaks

Which is to say,

I let myself fall in love with a composer.

We made our world a sanctuary

Raised musical children

Kept the dream alive.

Music said, find the space between the notes

Take comfort and rest a little

Which is to say,

No one will realize you’re missing.

After three quarters of a century

My father unzipped the universe

And left by the back kitchen door.

I framed the sketch of an eagle he penciled

on the front page margin of the Times

And placed it on our old upright piano.

Which is to say,

If I listen

I can still hear him whistling along

as I practice

In the bay window

Now, with a view of a forest.

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