I’m pretty sure they gather in my back yard,
the dead loved ones and the ancestors,
chatting quietly in the night,

their voices rustling like the susurrations
under the whispering sycamore leaves
big as bread plates every summer.

I lie awake sometimes, listening to
their murmurs, imagining that they’re
talking about me.

They must have so much to talk about—
like band members assembling for practice
before the director takes the podium.

Auntie Lo has taken up her accordion again,
her favorite childhood instrument,
which, while not often found in a band,

works here just fine. My father, her brother,
weighs in on clarinet, though he also
reportedly played a wicked xylophone

in the basement of the house their
father built in Illinois, the storehouse
of so many horns and drums.

I wonder what my mother will play,
she the most recent family member
to join them. Perhaps she will sit

next to her father, the concert pianist
and organist, their four hands
stretching long over the keys,

playing duets, laughing. The grandmas
and grandpas, uncles and aunts sit nearby
applauding, as they used to when

my little sister and I performed
“A Spoonful of Sugar” accompanied
by Auntie Lo’s piano flourishes.

And more audience: my grinning best friend
and my lanky late husband and—
oh, look!—assorted dogs and cats

scampering under the big sycamore
tree once again. These beloveds whisper
and bark and purr through my dreams,

sing in my veins. Sometimes I rise,
go to the window, part the blinds
and look into the darkened backyard,

nicely spotlighted by a waxing moon,
imagining that if I soften my gaze,
I can see these dear ones engaging

in ghostly gossip as they tune up,
then turning to reach for me,
as I reach for them.