The music is not in the notes, but in the silence between.
I have learned to still my thoughts of you
and even seek the music of your silence.
But on this ripened summer day,
I catch the ring of a stringed quartet
and memory of you resonates.
It is 1995,
and the radio is tuned to a fuzzy FM station.
Light and fluid chamber music
drifts and blends with the sound
of rippled water lapping at the lake shore.
We are at a grey formica table
in a rented trailer at West Lake.
Your little brother is napping,
and you and I are assembling
a complicated paper model of a spaceship.
I am frowning as
I puzzle over step-by-step instructions
my wise and winsome child,
to let me mother you
the only way I know how.
Looking back, I realize
that all our future choices and consequences
were also with us at the table
on that perfect summer day.
But we were both so young then
that neither of us knew to care.
you have taken flight —
to me now.
And these words are spilling out of me like tears,
and I am searching once again
for lost and simple harmonies
of love between a mother and her son.