It started with this one. Who came and honked his harmonica six inches from my face. Then asked if I liked it.
And I did.
Which was when I smiled like my hair might fall out and asked if he would close the door tightly behind him.
One turned into two.
Which was when I was invited to a live concert–LIVE, as in, I won’t be for long–put on by my children who’d transformed themselves into concert attire.
Between the two of them, they tapped empty buckets…
Slurped and screeched on the harmonica.
Hyperventilated on the train whistle.
Sang a few accompanied measures.
And raked, clanked…
Or smacked themselves with anything that made a hint of a noise.
It was beautiful.
Even the encore.