Finding Momentum

he sits on the porch-steps in the eight o’clock chill, enveloped by night sky and whis­pers to nobody-in-particular, “that’s what i want.” a cool breeze, the lights of the house fad­ing into the lawn and the orange glow of the city on low clouds.

eight years old and all he wants is to sit and lis­ten to his grand­mother sing–resonant notes out of a soul wrin­kled beau­ti­ful by time, trial and age. “that’s what i want,” she sings, an old melody tar­nished by time so she only remem­bers parts of the tune and no longer can remem­ber all the words. she hums when she can no longer remem­ber the line, but her voice—sometimes on some­times off–carries out of her thin frame and grows to fill the porch.

he tries to hum along, she tilts her head and smiles and nods to tell him to keep singing. she sings flat but doesn’t seem to notice as she con­tin­ues to nod her head to the tune. he fol­lows suit–slightly flat, hum­ming when the-line-they-didn’t-know came up, but mostly just happy to sing into the silence.