Familiar tunes of Baby Einstein
rise through my apartment floorboards
and Mozart plays in the background
of my otherwise normal Sunday—
that is, until “Rondo Alla Turca” is
interrupted
by gleeful young giggles and screams.
Enter the muffled intonations of a mother
Stop yelling, dear. The neighbors will hear you…
The wearing patience audible in her voice
I’m going to count to three…
as she gently chides her human-in-training.
One…two…three.
Suddenly my little neighbor
belts out a song of utter babble and nonsense at the top of her lungs,
proclaiming her presence to the world from below me.
Raw power rumbles through her vocal cords
and explodes out into the quiet
as she joins Mozart in a grand symphony.
The percussion of her little feet
stomping against the floorboards,
her music echoes, echoes, echoes,
until silence fills the empty space
that applause normally would.
Enter the muffled intonations of a mother
Honey…
Gently chiding her human-in-training,
Inside voices, remember?
signaling time for a curtain call.
Why don’t we go get you ready for your nap?
And I hear all of this as nothing more
than an invisible audience member
up in the rafters, unseen, unheard,
and hoping for an encore.