My Child Comma

My Child,
When I was younger, I loved music so much that I would try and get the music as close to my brain as possible. At that time, radios had headphones, but they were huge monstrosities that looked like a pilot should be wearing them while listening to some mundane instructions from distant voices.

Nonetheless, I would put these headphones on, turn the volume up as much as possible and bask in the melody, the harmony, and the rhythm... the sound of it all. But, full volume and huge headphones weren't enough. So I would reach up, and press the phones against my ears so they were closer, closer to my brain; so that the sound of it was not only part of what I heard, it was all that I heard. I pressed the phones until the music drowned out those mundane instructions from distant voices.

Today, headphones are almost microscopic. A person can be listening to a "nano" music device at full blast and you can hardly tell. But, the music, my child... you should hear the music! It is so full of anger and grace and beauty that I fear, sometimes, that the Earth will burst for want of space.

Will you even enjoy music? Will all that rhythm, fury and sound mean anything to you at all?

Perhaps you enjoy music even now. Some people say that I'm supposed to place those giant headphones on your mother's protruding belly, and let you listen... to beauty. But, I wonder if you can hear your mother's heart - it is so close to you - as it thumps and beats like a drum of flesh. Do you hear the inhale/exhale, liquid melodies of anatomy and grace? Do you hear your mother and I in the night, whispering about you with hushed joy and silent pleasures?

Maybe you will love music, or maybe it will be an escape. Maybe one day, you will press impossibly large headphones against your ears until distant voices fade away. Maybe one of those voices will be mine. But, until then, my child, enjoy this musical time; be enchanted by this symphony somatic. And someday, we will sing
of you
and for you
and with you.