This week he's hiding <br />under a blanket <br />when I come. <br /> <br />I ask him, 'Do you <i>want</i> <br />to have your lesson? ' <br />He tells me 'Yes', and so <br />we go into the next room, <br />to his music stand, and start. <br /> <br />I watch his little fingers <br />make the chords, <br />trying to gain a hand-hold <br />over chaos. <br /> <br />His memory's impressive, <br />though he sometimes <br />muffles every string <br />and has no sense <br />of when to strum. <br /> <br />I think of what it is <br />I want to teach him, <br />the things that seem <br />so simple, now, for me. <br /> <br />These concepts, <br />time and rhythm, <br />this finesse of fingers <br />don't come naturally. <br /> <br />They must be dredged <br />out of a dark sea <br />with a net of patience. <br /> <br />Sometimes he walks away <br />before the lesson's done, <br />telling me he's tired, <br /> <br />and I leave feeling our effort's dead. <br />Next week, perhaps, his mom will say, <br />'We're going to take a break...' <br /> <br />I struggle through despair <br />those few moments weekly <br />I can spare for preparation, <br />drawing rhythm charts: <br /> <br />two long lines <br />mark off a measure, <br />a short line for every strum, <br />chords and lyrics penciled in. <br /> <br />This week, it works! <br />Clapping out the 4/4, <br />then the 3/4 time, <br />I finally <i>hear</i> the songs <br />he's worked so long on. <br /> <br />He doesn't, but he will. <br />Life has come from the dead <br />impasse. The air in my lungs <br />is vast and fresh now, <br />like the sky that greets me <br />when I get outside. <br /> <br />I feel as though I've tutored Alexander <br />for his conquest of the world.<br /><br />Max Reif<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/teaching-a-seven-year-old-to-play-guitar/
