walkin’ in my front door

back bent and head a’hangin’ low twixt my shoulders

i kick closed the sturdy slab that quiets out the noisy day gone

turning the latch i hear a click that frees my pent up air from out my tired lungs

there’s a noise from the back of the apartment that pricks my ears

the sound is low and slow and gritty

i move to the small kitchen table and set down my grocery bags before taking off my coat and hanging it on the rack

that music can only mean one thing

i walk through the kitchen and down the hall following the sound of Hughes set to a moaning piano

this sound is too smooth for a recording

i turn the corner and the sight before me erases all the weary from my bones

i watch quietly as strong thick fingers move confidently across the worn ivory of my mother’s prized piano

Oh how she would blush to know that box was kicking out more than just the Lord’s music tonight

i lean comfortably against the door frame and drink in the sight of Titus lost in a trance of the weary blues

his notes carry me across the threshold of the tiny parlor room and he pauses briefly to turn and tilt his head up as I bend to kiss him softly

without words he starts into my eyes, nods his head to my chair not far from his piano bench

i kick off my shoes and curl up to listen to him tell me about both our days as the music begins again

Marta C. Youngblood is a writer, education and social entrepreneur based in Hot Springs, Arkansas. For more information on her current projects visit https://about.me/MCyoungblood.