Let your hopes, not your hurts, shape your future. (Robert H. Schuller)
CUT—
The little girl stands
on her imaginary stage
made of ordinary maroon carpet on an everyday Thursday afternoon
sometime in mid-1950. A popular song
drifts into the living room
from the kitchen where Mommy cooks,
scrubs the floor, and complains about how quickly
three kids get it dirty again.
She thinks she may be pregnant with her fourth child.
The girl mimics the trills, the rises and falls,
and emotions in the melody,
her gentle vibrato promising a
clear soprano voice one day.
Mama appears, wielding her wooden spoon.
So-who-do-you-think-you-are?
Mommy turns away without striking.
Yet, the girl hears the warning
and retreats into the dark, silent spaces
between the lace curtains and window.
The song will not disappear.
She hears it inside her head
and saves the sound for a safer moment.
terrypetersen 