The Recital

THE RECITAL / Arthur Smith for my sister Twice, in dreams, in the ferocity Of chUdhood, I hacked her up so horribly she's still, to this day, Benefiting from my guilt, though I think she had my number Early on, long before the dreams, about the same time she acquired The social grace of the accordion. What can I say, offering not only—as only A younger brother could—to be her one companion, doggedly encouraging, As she went rummaging through the known musical notes For the better part of a year, but also to carry the contraption—bulky, an embarrassment— To and from her weekly lessons? I can almost weep remembering AU the renditions of "Home on the Range" I suffered through Between the ages of eight and nine, And how they crippled, forever, whatever sense of melody I may have had. And yet I say Amen to all that, and likewise to the summer afternoon of her recital, The heat doubling off the asphalt lot And pulsing at the stained-glass windows As though it wanted in. There we sat, in pews, Dressed up and chilled, miserably, 240 · The Missouri Review Whenever the air-conditioner kicked on, joining its drumming bass-note To the cacophony in which My sister, decked out in pinafore And ringlets, played No small part. It was bad. I was only nine and would twice later, Dreamily, do her in, but even then, wishing Td been Brought up in an orphanage, I was feeling the strangest order of affection For the girl being Manhandled by an accordion. Whatever that feeling was, it wasn't love, and we had shared too much For friendship. It struck me then that we were "blood," that curious word Grownups often leaned on as an excuse for someone's failings, as in "Well, blood will out," or, more simply, "He's blood-kin, you know," With the stress on "you know." Otherwise, other than the blood, My sister and I were girl and boy, no more than strangers, really, coincidentally whirled Into an orbit Not of our desire or design, But, rather, thrown together thrashing, the same way the wounded notes were then thrashing toward silence, The same way everything moves Toward silence— awkwardly, together. Arthur Smith THE MISSOURI Review · 242 ...