Hymns of the Morning

Early on summer days I'd wake to my Dad's wedding band clicking on the ivory keys. His hymns would nudge me awake off the living room couch; my camp site when AC was a luxury we still ignored as a family. There was often no sheet music, no scrawled chord progressions guiding him, just his hands knowing; finding the keys that agreed without looking.

At the time, it might as well have been an alarm clock prelude to my chores, the signal that a break from school could still be spoiled slapping paint on the peeling exterior of our house as some lesson of work.

But now, I'd speak of this less harsh bugle call fondly. I'd construct it into conversation so it appeared that I was always smart enough to be grateful for this gentle waking.

Music. Sweet music, even before breakfast. Sweet music before the brutal July sun and its thick hands of heat could club me awake through the blinds. Sweet music softly saying, the day is beautiful son, the world is yours.