The other evening, I'm sitting by the window, watching the snow fall. I jump up, to find the song, put it on the stereo.
Helena, often witness to my bursts of musical inspiration, doesn't always appreciate my taste. But she perks up at the opening tones. "Wait, Mama."
She comes back with her saxoflute. "Listen. It's the same." She insists I play the song from the beginning. "Wait, Mama."
She comes back with her Kyrgyz clay bird ocarina. "This one too — it's the same." She hands it over for me to play.
We start the song from the beginning again. "Wait, Mama."
She rummages through the kitchen cupboards. The old coffee tin with rice grains.
Now we're ready. From the beginning again. We jam.