She learned music the way some children learn devotion
by watching her father’s hands.
At first memory she studied the way sound
leaned in toward him,
how a piano softened in his presence,
how songs seemed willing
when he asked them to speak.
She wanted to do everything like him,
right down to the way feeling
became music instead of noise,
Ashes became beauty.
And a Holy Shadow hovered nearby, waiting.
A shadow that would cover her, and carry her to her purpose.
Music came to her through her Father’s shadow,
a family language passed hand to hand.
She followed him into chords
the way a daughter follows footprints in snow,
believing that if she stepped where he stepped, she might arrive somewhere safe.
Even now, when she plays,
there is an echo
not imitation,
but an inheritance.
Mantle passed down.
Music didn’t just keep her company—
it chose her.
Slipped into her breath,
made a home in her throat,
waited patiently for her to trust it.
When she sings,
it is not performance
but an involuntary recognition—
like answering a call
that’s been ringing her whole life.
She doesn’t borrow songs.
She makes them.
Draws them up from the deep waters of salvation,
where love, passion, heartache and memory share a heartbeat.
She writes because silence
is too lonely otherwise,
because her soul needs somewhere
to sit beside her father again,
listening and trusting what she hears.
Her friends are melodies
that remember where she came from,
lyrics that stand up for her
when no one else does.
She knows there is always a song
willing to agree with her,
a line that says,
Yes, this is right, Keep going.
She sings from the place
beneath courage,
beneath explanation—
from the quiet truth
that was taught to her
by watching someone she loved
turn feeling into sound.
Music holds her now
the way her Father did —
steady, familiar, safe.
Telling her without words,
“Here is where you belong.”
(I already played with a bare right foot.)
@1982
