His part is baritone, mine soprano.
our senior duet from that musical
set in a Scottish village hidden in time.
Spotlight strong, we clasp hands.
I squint into his eyes, try so hard
not to remember how in eighth grade
he had been so very cruel, so cold,
sent me home to disappear myself
in a bed of tears for hours. Now, he is
crossing the stage to me, a serenader:
What a day this has been, what a rare
mood I’m in, why it’s almost like being
in love. And I see his kindness now,
eyes that take me in, all of me as I am,
and we harmonize about the music of life
our voices well matched, stances symmetrical,
then clinging together, taking in the heather
on the hill and I understand. Only music
can heal a wound like mine, could make
a space for forgiveness, could make right
his failure of kindness. After, in the wings
we embrace, squeeze hands. Let go.
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