What Can I Say

Mom, Dad,
what can I say?
Can I say,
you gave me life,
you taught me right from wrong,
you believed in me,
you gave me happiness and joy,
you gave me courage and commitment,
you made me the person I am today.
And I just want to say thank you,
for everything.

What can I say?
Dad, look at me now.
Mr. Ashot says I’m an artist,
playing artist piano pieces.
My friends look at me with awe
when I place my hands
on the black and white keys.
I love music, more than anything.
Dad, look at me then.
I kicked the piano once, do you remember?
I broke off a white key once, do you remember?
I said I hated piano more than once, do you remember?
Dad, look at me nine years ago.
I played my first note.
I know I was frustrating,
I know you’re tired,
I know you sometimes sit late at night,
wondering what to do with me.
So thank you for placing my hands on the piano
over and over and over,
until I played Chopin with ease,
until I played Beethoven with strength,
until I played Mozart with vigor.

What can I say?
Mom, look at me now.
I top the charts in all reading tests.
I beat all my friends in reading contests.
I can feel the black ink on the white paper.
Mom, look at me then.
I ripped a page out once, do you remember?
I stabbed the books with a red pen once,
willing the ink to spread like poison, do you remember?
I yelled at you more than once, do you remember?
Mom, look at me nine years ago.
I read my first story.
I know I was frustrating,
I know you’re tired,
I know you sometimes sit late at night,
wondering what to do with me.
So thank you for turning the page
over and over and over,
until I couldn’t put my books down,
until I read J.K. Rowling at age nine,
until I read Shakespeare with understanding.

Thank you.
Mom, Dad,
that is what I can say.