Favorite

A dusty middle school,

A rotund chorus room,

The chairs lined around it for glee.

At the front of the room,

Stood the grandest piano,

Where you had a special place for me.

The class would begin,

The hums start off low,

And falalas follow next.

You’d wave me on over,

“Sit here, dear girl,”

Your piano, our bench.

Your spindly old fingers,

Knew every chord,

You’d motion me, “turn the page”

Where did you learn such skills?

Was it college or church?

Your dexterity defied your age.

How many kids did you have?

How many grandkids run now?

I wonder if they knew who I did:

A kind, soft black lady,

who gave special jobs,

To an alto, a sweet white kid.

Dear Mrs. Jackson,

It may have been a task,

And anyone could’ve given what I gave it,

But by your side,

on the slim wooden bench,

Was the first time I ever felt like a favorite.