was my father’s religion.
He’d ask for nothing more
than on weekends to sit
in the living room and let
Brahms, Beethoven
and Tchaikovsky wash
over his stock broker soul.

All week long he trudged
down to Wall Street, rising
before dawn, returning
after six.  All week long
he rode to and from work
on the Long Island Railroad
to a job he disliked. But
on weekends, oh the weekends,
he had Toscanini, WQXR and
his records, his family and
fishing, if weather permitted,
and I like to think, because
he seemed so angry, that when
I spied him conducting in the
living room, he was a happy man.


© by Jean Colonomos.
Used with the author’s permission.