THE MUSIC MAN

By

Jen Michakski

I wake up in the crack of February. The fields are frozen dust outside the window, sparkling like sugar for the birds that have stayed through the winter. In the kitchen, the familiar smell of Sunday morning is absent, a death. No eggs, no sausage, no toast, only the acrid blackness of coffee, the lingering stab of whiskey. My father sits at the table in an undershirt and corduroys, a greasy white look about his face, a cigarette blowing smoke up his arm. There are plates broken everywhere, silverware gleaming in corners, my mother's favorite vase scattered in the living room like leftover parade confetti. How could I not hear this cacophony the night before, in the quiet expanse of nowhere, where the stars shine like flashlights on our house?

But I remember the dream of noise, of cymbals and snare drums and xylophones and the big parade, my father the music man, kicking his legs up in cadence, leading the band down scrubbed streets. Everyone is happy, such happy noise. We all follow him. And where does he lead us?

I know Mom is gone. Whether she will come back in a few hours with milk and make scrambled eggs or perhaps this afternoon or maybe never I don't know. I pour a cup of coffee, my first, and sit across from my father. Outside, a purple martin shoots over the cornfield, pixie dust on top and broken cornstalks underneath like skeletons.