Not just us, honey, you’ve got all
the grandparents listening to you play—

everyone who nudged you along
your musical path. Auntie Lo, of course.

When you were very small, you sat next
to her on her piano bench as she guided

your fingers on the keys and taught you
“Chopsticks.” She could play by ear

any song that you and Donna requested—
so many rounds of “A Spoonful of Sugar”

and “Supercalifragalisticexpialidocious”.
Here’s Grandpa Keeley, whose piano you

once lay under, feeling the vibrations of
Chopin and Gershwin through the floorboards.

Over there is Mrs. Meinyer, the Bonicelli’s
Music piano teacher who taught you to

read treble and bass clef, which came
in handy later for bells and tympani.

Not to forget percussion teacher Stan Lunetta,
band directors like Don Whitehead.

Mr. Rolicheck, your eighth-grade homeroom
teacher who insisted that you sing a solo

at graduation, who had endless confidence
in your budding writer self, once intoning,

“You, Miss Haag, have potential.” And look
at you, ages later—so many ages—

still putting that potential to good use.
The music never left; it’s been waiting for you.

Of course, those of us with wings are watching
from the wings. We always will as you continue

to grow yours. Can you feel them lifting now,
ready to help you soar?