Ilana

16

This summer

you captured my laughter, like music
and transcribed it for full orchestra.

In the sand between us
you drew out a score
and used my finger to trace the notes,
the crescendos,
the breath marks.

It starts out soft,
a piccolo,
like a breath or a child’s smile,
soft.
But it’s growing and changing,
moving,
and the cellos sound warm and wide and welcoming.

You say my eyes crinkling in the corners is an oboe,
sweet like melting ice cream,
pooling in the crevices of my hands.
The violas are my cheekbones, rosy
like a doll and rising,
and the clarinets are the way I clasp my hands together.

It’s playful, you say, like a funny story,
and then it moves, your head thrown back,
mouth wide and smiling,
like the punchline of a joke.

The cornets enter like a storm,
like they can’t be contained anymore,
like they’re finally free and it’s exhilarating.
The trombones are rich chocolate beneath it all,
and you say that’s your favorite part. That it’s the most like me
and that you wish you could play the trombone
to show me.

But there's still the ending and you take my hand to show me-
the violin,
a quiet magic
like the sea or the sky,
like a breath or a child's smile.