Her fingers maneuver effortlessly along the ivory keys accompanied by the sweet voice that mothers tend to have.

I sit in awe, watching her fingers. I mimic the movements and it works. I can play but I understand not and in my lack of understanding, I forget the rhythm of the art.

His fingers strum the strings of the Spanish instrument. I can feel the music as I attempt to sing in line with musicians before me. If God bestowed upon me a talent of singing, I would never be quiet.

There she goes, along with him, playing the six-stringed instrument. They sing, what a lovely tune.

The musical parents play the recorder and the song they play is by my request. The Titanic theme echoes throughout the house and I try to keep my tears from falling.

Disaster shook and the music stopped.

Divorce can do that.

.

.

.

Add 10 years, and a faint song is heard. Sometimes it’s the guitar, other times the piano but funny enough, it is never the recorder.

And now I try to attain what should be mine. Strum, strum, strum… it most certainly has skipped a generation.

So I let words be my music and the pen my harp.