The Deeper Song

Years ago I wrote a song on the piano,

discovered its patterns, played it over

and over so I could remember. Even tried

to score it. Then we moved. I found a good

spot for the upright, had her tuned, but seldom

got to play. There was the tree that almost fell

on the house and your mother’s surgery and

the new push at work. Sometimes I’d pause

near the keys just before bed feeling the

tug at my heart but I was so tired and I

couldn’t find the song. Then my father

turned 90 and I went to see him. And I

had that awful spell with my stomach. And

then I lost my job. And finally when you were

out and the dog was asleep and the sun was

almost down, I dusted her off, afraid I’d

completely forgotten everything. But after

a few wrong notes my hands took over, as

if to say, “We’ve been waiting for you.”

And the song beyond the opening led me

to a run of single notes that fingered the

spot in my heart that carried me through

everything. As if the song I thought I’d

written was just a pouch in which the

deeper song had been waiting.