Chopin and Mom -   Afterthought.

I think they must meet, Chopin and my mother,

Wherever they are;  he so young and Mom over a hundred

And perhaps she plays for him

And they talk about phrasing and what he was thinking,

What he wanted, 

And how she hears it.

And perhaps his father is standing over them, 

Putting in his own two cents…

Proudly knowing that his son’s music has lasted 

Oh, so long - 

And was loved by a little girl in her bed  

A  little girl who fell asleep 

As it drifted in

And now - can I say it?  -  an “elderly”  -girl

Who still feels the same way.