At ninety-eight,
the years are a blurred map,
except for this:
the sharp, clear grief of a son’s funeral
and the way the Mendelssohn rose
to meet the rafters.
His hand lifts—
a slow, ghost-weight motion
cutting through the heavy air of the room.
He is conducting the shadows now,
guiding a choir only he can hear,
every finger an instrument of memory.
He pays attention to the phrasing,
the swell of the alto,
the steady pulse of the bass.
He is practicing for his entrance.
The score is almost finished.
He is smoothing his lapel,
steadying his breath,
ready to step onto the riser
and find his place
between his wife and his son.
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