Their names had been excised, plucked away
Without sound, then flipped into the fog,
Joining that haze of songs she could no longer
Retrieve. Yet she rose and applauded the instant
She spotted her children and grandchildren
At the door, her granddaughter dangling the ebony
Case that held her half-size violin. As always,
The grandmother presented her kin to everyone
En route as her grandson wheeled her,
Clutching the violet ribbon of a helium balloon,
Into the party room. Her granddaughter
Slid the bow across the amber instrument.

“Yankee Doodle,” “Ode to Joy.” The grandmother
Bobbled her head and tapped her slippered foot.
At the first surge of the cancan song, she bounded
Out of her chair, high-kicking a leg. Arm in arm,
Her family joined her, interlocked in a jaunty
Chorus line. As soon as the song and cheering
Ended, the grandmother lifted a chocolate
Cupcake to her lips, gobbled the swirly icing
Only, licking her fingers to claim each last
Bit of glaze. The final song on that morning’s
Program: “Happy Birthday.” What sonorous
Voice from such a diminutive box of wood.