My Dad played cello in the dark,
when skies and clouds lost light.
As the stars came out, his strings a story told
of love, of hope, of joy.
Not ever old.
After dinner, Mom would put the chores aside.
We kids would gather all around.
Homework, TV, cellphones quite forgot.
Jobs, six days a week, robbed their souls.
Wealth and worldly goods they never found.
His music was the gift that healed all hearts.
We heard sounds that made the night so dear.
He gave his sorrow notes and songs.
Somewhere in the dark of night with stars his only light,
my Dad would play with skill and might,
with varied touches: forte strong to sweetest hush.
He seemed to always get it right.
From Bach to Rock, he played it all:
by note, by ear; a master each and every year,
until that final silence came.
Night-time seemed like such a friend.
Wish that I could turn back time:
to hear his cello once again;
to see his bow fly cross the strings;
and his music meet the stars
as Dad played cello in the dark.