My First Lesson

She says Vivaldi came to me
through the womb.

She says she placed headphones on her belly--
huge, old school transponders
that fed me
The Four Seasons
and Concerto Alla Rustica, and something
called L’Inverno. 

I don’t remember any of that but
I do know
when I was little, I stood
on the piano pedals,
groped keys with my fingers
as if I knew they were for me and
she’d come running, saying,
So pretty, her voice a note I understood.

I like Rachmaninoff now--
I try to match his speed--
and Liszt—fingers in flight, chasing the story--
and it’s new every time--
and when I’m driving I like
Beiber and
and yes, okay, Tay Tay and
give me a little Uptown Funk.

Last week a letter arrived from
the school--
the college I had hoped for—my long shot. 
I’m in!  I’m on fire!  I’m king of the world!
Then yesterday, another.
Too expensive!  I can’t go! 
I slammed doors.
I wallowed, yelled and then
I sat at the bench
and played,
my fingers bringing me home
measure by measure
until I could breathe
and rest and think.

I don’t remember the Vivaldi, but I believe
in the story.  I like
the idea
of my first lesson--
learning
some kind of beauty,
the way things fit together,
kindness and complexity, the tension of all things--
learning it while I slept, safely waiting.
I need that—I need all those things. 
Nothing else has such power.
Music is everything.