To the Mother Who Kept Her Headphones On While Her Daughter Played the Keyboard and Sang Me Songs She Made Up
You are watching Netflix in the basement
While Halley’s comet punctures the sky.
You are more present somehow
after you get up and leave for the cafeteria
after a few minutes, tossing a smile at me,
grateful that your child is entertained.
As if she is not capable, clearly,
of entertaining herself.
You are her reed-thin voice.
You are her shallow gasp,
her quickly withdrawn hand
when she plays the C
one too many times
in the last line of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.
You are her blue darting eyes
that do not look up at mine once.
Before she began, she said,
“I’m really shy. I don’t sing in front of people.”
And then she sat still, silent
for 10 seconds.
I don’t want to know what is in your headphones,
what could possibly be more important
than your daughter’s slow breaths
before she starts to sing.
I don’t want to know what made you so impatient
that ten seconds is too long
to wait to hear her voice.