the accidental flutist
Who knew that October would lend itself to such summery improvisation,
that the sun would slant just so and the kids, Sunday-sleepy and a little delirious
from their busy first weeks of school, would gather at the elbows
of their grandmother to listen? Who knew that the notes would swing
out of her like a new kind of jazz, that we'd sit, grinning and a little envious
as she closed her eyes to find a rhythm and made wild,
unabashed movements as if she were channeling the Pied Piper?
It wasn't music, exactly, but when you're sitting in the bright light of even
the slimmest happiness, it doesn't matter who's listening. Only that
you are holding your instrument close to your bones and playing your heart out.