my mother, pearl, with folded hands, in rooms patiently waiting. her hands are a shimmering flame. time is precious in the inspiration. her wriggling in the doctor’s ear. a blanket for a shawl, taking three buses to the hospital in a blizzard to come get me. how is he getting better, when he believes the wall is a piano? at least he plays a real one at home. like the earnest search for the b section of a maple tree. not a figure yet, but the contours of one. he’s even composed pieces on and for the wall he calls “études for chalk piano and penumbral figures on the wall.” quite stunning really.  the insistence that we be somebody somewhere impedes assembly. i’m in the middle of the piece with melody all around. pleasantries being extended between tulips. i honor the invitation to come into their reed study, convene a wily forum. mama takes me by hand and leads me to black with outside. the best improvisers are always listening way out ahead of you, they know what you need to hear, and play it so your toes never touch the ground. mrs. powell, your son has difficulty keeping everything straight in his head. but they just want me to telegraph my phrases to make it more convection. they will never know what it is like to be honest as dew before first light. keep your ears on swivel, be ready to throw down on general principle.

– makalani bandele