listening to her practice: my middle daughter, on the edge of adolescence, learns to play the saxophone :: barbara crooker
Her hair, that halo of red gold curls,
has thickened, coarsened,
lost its baby fineness,
and the sweet smell of childhood
that clung to her clothes
has just about vanished.
Now she’s getting moody,
moaning about her hair,
clothes that aren’t the right brands,
boys that tease.
She clicks over the saxophone keys
with gritty fingernails polished in pink pearl,
grass stains on the knees
of her sister’s old designer jeans.
She’s gone from sounding like the smoke detector
through Old MacDonald and Jingle Bells.
Soon she’ll master these keys,
turn notes into liquid gold,
wail that reedy brass.
Soon, she’ll be a woman.
She’s gonna learn to play the blues.