Listen to your father singing
just below the voice on the radio,
his voice a high tenor
that makes you think of the wind
when it goes around corners
or sneaks into cracks in the walls.

Listen to the memories the banjo
will bring to him,
memories of a five-string
played at coffee houses and clubs
while a pretty girl waited
to dance with him.

Wonder why,
why he ever stopped.
What could happen to make him,
when each worded remembrance is drizzled
with a nostalgic smile,
when each note makes his stiffened fingers itch.

Wonder how this grinning, bearded man
became many times a father, many times a husband,
always a musician,
but never in the band
he wanted to find here
when he was young.

Watch his capable hands knead dough
and remember when you would hold his thumb,
in the days when he still prayed with you at night.
When he looks up and hugs you,
understand that when he was 17,
this is not where he imagined he'd be at 70,
but that you are still the greatest song
he's ever played a chord in.