Megan, I understand that you are taking
voice lessons on Fridays after school.
Thirty minutes one-on-one
with a retired professor from Juilliard
in her Tudor home where nothing
is out of place except
a worn husband and too many cats.
Megan, I think you should know that tamed
and trained adults
with holes in their swimsuit pockets
where the wonders fell out, will tell you that
your sandcastle voice is built
too close to the surf.
They’ll offer you a relocation package
and help rebuild your skill set,
even guide you in digging a moat
that love cannot cross.
Having lost my own voice off the tee somewhere
in the tall grass when I was about your age,
can I whisper to you some subversive advice?
Run Megan! Run sweetheart!
Run for the door, run over
your teacher, past the used-up man,
through those stupid cats, out the front door
with its Mozart doorbell, carefully
but quickly down the calculated steps
and when you get to the swept and pressure washed sidewalk
don’t look back.
Your Mom will be there in the driveway,
trying to stay warm with the engine turned off,
faintly singing a tune you wouldn’t know,
her eyes moist, her nose pressed against her window like a child
peering into an aquarium, wondering what it would be like
to be a fish.
Megan, this is your getaway car so tell Mom to step on it!
Because you just robbed the bank where they were holding
all the play money,
magic, and silliness of childhood.
She’ll hesitate, your mother will,
but tell her to drive
and to keep driving.
Tell her to head to the park--
the one with the bridge
and picnic table near the stream,
the one with the monkey bars
and swing sets lit up in primary colors.
She’ll start to get it, Megan.
She has more to pass on to you than
imported olive skin
and silky brown eyes.
She understands more than you think,
which is why she often wears sunglasses
on these overcast and overspent days.
But don’t probe her on that.
Instead I suggest that you invite her
to pick out a CD and a favorite song
for the ride. And the two of you
should sing along quite loudly.
By the way, don’t let anyone convince you that
singing too forcefully will cause you to lose your voice.
On the contrary--that’s how you’ll find it.
So sing loud, missy. Belt it out,
and if you miss some words
and massacre a few notes, all the better.
Don’t sing precisely, but passionately!
As if your life depended on it
because it does.