A BANJO GIRL

Dear Spike:

Your mother stopped going to her weekly banjo practices when she was eight months pregnant. Lately, I’ve been trying to get her to pick it up again. She keeps saying she will — some time later.

But after what happened Saturday evening, I’m pretty sure she’ll be playing again very soon.

You were crying. She was rocking you. I was fiddling with a music sampling program on my computer, trying to find a tune for a video, when I came across a few short banjo riffs.

And just like that, you were silent.

We weren’t sure at first. It might have been a simple coincidence. So I turned the music off.

And you started to cry.

And I turned the music on.

And you were quiet again.

The only plausable explanation, of course, is that you could remember the sounds of the banjo from when you were inside your mother’s womb. And that brings me great joy, because if you can remember music from before you were born, it makes it easier for me to believe that the things we do together now — walking through the park, singing, rocking and reading — might just stick to your psyche in the years to come.

Who knew you’d be a banjo girl?

Love,
dad