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ovenbird
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Maybe music was my first language, the mother tongue that defined the shape my voice made when I sang from the back of my father’s bicycle when I was two. He would pedal and I would sing, up and down the quiet side streets, then still lined with mature maples, slowing at the train tracks, passing the kids with their sidewalk chalk and sticky faces, my father strong and younger than I am now. My melodies bounced off the curve of his back, shiny like new pennies, every note rolling away into the street to be picked up by curious grackles, heads tilted in avian amusement.
If I reach back can I still hear the burble of my toddling voice? Oh what I would give to be new, with nothing but songs in my throat.
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