Whistling 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 Baldwin 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

Dreamt a dream bigger than a lifetime

Which is to say,

Being a musician.

For twenty years I toured the world.

Eventually, I learned to listen.

Music said, don’t rush.

Don’t push the tempo until it breaks

Which is to say,

I fell irrevocably 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

The infinity you seek is there.

Which is to say,

Take comfort and rest a little.

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,

I can hear him whistling along

as I practice Mozart

In the bay window

Now, with a view of a forest.