FINGERS REMEMBER

White-haired, old and thin,
the man lounges on the iron bench,
sipping espresso and
tapping his foot on the bricks
in time to the orchestra.
A strangled sob.
He gets up, tears in his eyes,
wishing he could play with those people.
His fingers bent from
years of drumming the keys of a clarinet.
Flying to grasp melodies of songs he played,
he steps down the aisle,
strums his fingers in the air,
strums his memory away.

ABBY WOLNYK, Grade 7
San Pasqual Union