Whistler's Daughter

Who is that whistling?
I cannot whistle
alas,
not like Grandma who could
charm the bluebird
threading notes
through a blade of grass.
She tried to teach me
she was patient
but I could only
manage a stubborn rush
of air
that puffed out my cheeks
and released a stream of
spittle into her hair
and made her laugh.
I cannot whistle
alas,
not like my Father could
through the conch shell of his hands
trilling melodies
so grand eloquent
he'd learned from travels
to distant lands.
And I could
give him my requests
and he always did more than
his best, to comply.
so, I always wondered why
there was so much to it,
and why I couldn't quite do it.
I looked foolish
in my mind
every time I tried.
Til one night
in college after having way too much
to drink
I think
it may have been the
50 cent beers
and countless scotch and sodas
and the ritualistic dancing
to a disco beat,
I felt the melody meet
my lips
and
I began whistling
snippets of the
Good Bad and the Ugly.
We'd been discussing
Spaghetti Westerns all night long
and who was badder, Eli Wallach
or Lee Vancleef.
And so momentarily inspired,
my lips inflamed with fire,
I puckered up
and I finally acquired a long dormant
ability.
I imagined Grandma
smiling down on me.
Then my Father
nodding his approval,
proving finally,
at last,
and forever
we shared the very same genes.

Copyright September 26 2011 All Rights Reserved By Author

Melissa A Howells of Tilt-a-World

And now for something a little different... :-)

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