Following the Music
By Betty McCauley
I prop the picture beside the phone.
In the black and white snapshot
Dad’s white hair shines, neatly parted,
and he leans forward in the rocking chair,
mouth organ cupped in worker’s hands.
Tommy, at his knee,
clutches Grandpa with pudgy hands.
Just big enough to pull himself up,
he follows the music,
face upturned and rapt.
Thirty-nine years later,
Tom phones me in electronic excitement
about his new studio,
music they’ll record,
albums they’ll make.
As I listen to him
I see the gentle smile in Dad’s eyes.
Back in the old country,
playing for friends to dance
the schottische and the Swedish waltz,
he couldn’t have imagined
consoles and microphones –
records –
tapes –
CDs –
or a grandson’s music on the radio.
On our Christmas he simply played a joyful song,
And Tom tuned in for life.