Claudia
by Marianne Peel  

She sits in the second row
at Wesley Village Nursing Home.
Huddled down in her chair,
she often nestles her head
into her son’s shoulder.   

Her eyes focused and unflinching
on the singers.  A ragtag ensemble 
in their best spring pastels
bringing music to those
who navigate the world
with walkers, wheelchairs,
three-legged sturdy canes.  

As we sing of a light over the horizon,
how wherever you go,
you  can always come home…
her face crumbles, and she begins to cry.
The music transports her someplace
far away.  Perhaps in memory.
Perhaps in longing.  Perhaps
in yearning for something
just beyond reach. Something lost.  

After the concert, I tell her
you are such a beautiful woman,
such a lovely audience for our songs.
I ask if I can thank her with a hug.
Her son gives me permission. 

Her son tells me she no longer
has words. But the music. The music
speaks to her.  Every time.  

She places her hand on my cheeks. 
Caresses my face in three-quarter time
with the palm of her hand.
I kiss her face. 
A contrapuntal gesture.   

And we share this duet                                   
over and over again.
Making harmonies
only the two of us
can hear.