My grandmother’s father’s name was Forester.
She belied her nominal heritage.
Instead of park ranger school,
she went to conservatory to study piano,
the girlish option,
or so I was told.
I never heard her play anything but
nursery songs–
“Chopsticks”
and scales.

She dropped out of conservatory,
married a gas station owner,
birthed seven children.
Only one was musical, my father.
an opera lover,
who could play piano by ear, if he wanted.
He drank instead.

We don’t often live up to expectations,
other people’s plans for our one and only life.
Don’t always do what we’re told,
try our hands at the impermissible.
We long to be tickled in our secret nooks
and send down roots that let us sway.

Written by Kathryn Lasseter