Memories 2: Piano Lessons

A poem for my parents.

Not one but many memories, layered
like a composite image.

The basement
suite stuffed with mics, 8-track setup, record
player and piano, that instrument
of grandness and repetition. Playing
well beyond the half-hour, trying to
get it right, laughing, jamming, departing,
me behind the wheel of EAT 992.

Then, time in the car with just my dad; we'd
let the night air rush through and crank up the
tunes, letting the familiar road lead
us home.

Home, mom curled up comfy on the
couch, an episode of the West Wing on
and a certain sense of: Here, I belong.