There’s a whole world that travels
from computer or smart phone up the thin
cords through the rubber ear buds
where it bursts into life and dance and frolic
that careens around the gray matter of my brain.
I’m wrapped in the swirling strains of Beethoven
and Adele and Liszt and the Beatles and Shostakovich and 60’s Doo Wap,
my imagination freed from the blare of the cooking show
Mother watches on TV, freed to the music,
alive with moods,
and letters afloat.
The music pulls me into dank, deep forests of
unrealized goals where I wallow, gasping for air,
until weak armed I reach for lofty peaks
of hope in the strife to survive,
until I’m caught and gathered up
on the wisps of daylight
of tomorrow’s possibles.
They press glimmers
against the drag of the schedule of care
for this ancient house,
this fading generation,
this memoir to a way of life
that seems stilted to great-great grandchildren;
or to anyone with energy and stamina enough
to venture out into the frantic rush
of the city traffic that’s still alive
in its bustle of existence
and that continues
without either Mother or me.
These ear buds keep me tethered
to the expectancy that life won’t always be this.
Be here. Be staid. Be constricted by age and frailty.
The ear bud wires hum,
my ears tingle,
the floating fragments settle
gel and ooze
down my arms
out my fingers on the keyboard
to live again in words on the page.