Something I Want to Remember || Nina Coyle

It must have been a holiday
that landed our family in
Muncie, Indiana.

 
My brother and I,
our bellies to the itchy carpet floor
of the guestroom.

Peter Rabbit and friends
were stenciled on the walls,
I think, or perhaps
sewn into the pastel quilt.

We must have been quiet,
or bored.

The grown-ups huddled around the table,
telling stories.
The grown-up-kids hunting board games,
or the bin of home movies.

 
However it happened,
I’ll never forget
the night my aunt introduced me
to harmony.

 
To this day, I cannot reconstruct the lesson
or conjure the seedling tune.

 
It was likely a hymn, maybe a nursery song
or lullaby—a warm space held by well-paired notes
a careful cocoon, soft as a pillow.

 
She didn’t know it then, but this aunt
would also introduce me to several best friends.

 
Shyer than peers, I used my ear
to sing the hellos my speaking voice
would always swallow.

 
And now, in these days of
a wandering adulthood,
in these hours of voices vying for attention

 
I am grateful, too, for
the wisdom of harmony

 
this special sort of tool that says:

 
Yes, I am listening to you
and--I have my own voice, too.
 

and together, we can create
tensions that cause dried
hearts to break open and pour
forth the grief of
long-buried sorrow.

 
Yes. It is the sweater of
harmony, I hope to hold
until threadbare.
 

It is the hope of human
voices offered alone,
and together

 
the healing of so much loneliness
in the balm of an amen.