Family Meeting

Last night, a rare family meeting --
the five of us, my parents
and two sisters in the living room
of the house they bought
35 years ago next month,
just shy of my 11th birthday.

In that little alcove, I played
piano for hours -- not practicing,
mind you, I was much too undisciplined
for that, but just playing
with the keys, improvising,
creating my own music or just returning
to the pieces I knew well enough
to play without stumbling.

"Here's what you need to know,"
my father began. I took a spoonful
from the baked apples my mom
had made, her mother's recipe.
We reviewed plans and wishes,
safety deposit boxes,
asked questions,
knowing there must be room
for uncertainty,
since none of us knows what the hell
will happen next,
even laughing at the thought
that two urns could fit
in one plot
and wouldn't that be a good deal?

The house itself is a reliquary of time,
years somehow held there
as sure as the weathered drum
in the corner of the room
harbors the hand prints of those
who once beat some rhythm
we're still dancing to
without knowing
its origins, songs without end
or whose endings we cannot know.