The House on Laburnum Avenue

A house on Laburnum Avenue. An upright piano. Waiting for mom.

After dinner for seven, after the chaos of the table, bedtime would come.

Her fingers moved gently over the keys, and she would sing, “Mom’s going to buy you a mockingbird.” As if she was whispering just for me.

Slower and softer than when Joan sang it — the singer I would come to know years later.

I didn’t know the song had traveled across generations before reaching our house. I only knew my mother’s voice.

When the shuffle plays Joan’s version, I return to that house on Laburnum Avenue.