I grew up in a major-chord, sing-along, jazz-riff house.

I grew up in the cracks

between black and white 

keyboard keys, but

the hymns they taught me 

don’t shake my soul the same way anymore. 

I slipped up with slide grease, not elbow grease, 

and I learned to flinch from fist-bumps, not snare drums. 

Maturing meant learning 

which intervals clashed, what pedal to press when,

and harmonizing to the notes that left audiences 

speechless. 

Moving on meant throwing

out pieces that just

weren’t good enough; 

not batting an eye at 

bass lines out of sync. 

Adulting means having a job,

not a hobby.

Growing up with perfect pitch filled my world with 

cords, but failed to place any around my neck at graduation.

So I’ll put down the headphones,

and pick up a textbook.