November 9, 2023The Accordion
The highlight of every Christmas was you climbing
the attic staircase, like a memory to your childhood,
carrying down the brown leather case that held
the pearl-keyed Titano accordion. Bought by your parents
the year you had rheumatic fever and told you’d never walk
again. We sat at your feet, waiting for the one song you learned
before you proved them wrong, as you squeezed life
into the empty vessel, exhaling “La Vie en rose.”
The year we had to honor your do not resuscitate wish,
there were no rescues, our breath only shallowing
as we tried to follow yours. All of us still as the air left the room.
Now I keep the leather case close, collecting dust beneath
my bed, knowing at any time, my arms wrapped around
leather and linen lungs, the music can be so easily revived.