Ten Little Doors: Evidence from a Poem

Ten Little Doors

1The summer Uncle Dez moved across the country,
he pressed his old harmonica into my hand.
It was silver, with a dent on one corner,
and it smelled a little like peppermint.
"Ten holes," he said. "Ten little doors for your breath."

2My first note squeaked like a rusty gate.
My second note honked like a grumpy goose.
My little brother, Kofi, covered his ears.
Below us, Mrs. Alvarez thumped her ceiling with a broom.

3After one week, I shoved the harmonica into my sock drawer.
"I'm just not a music person," I told Mom.
She raised one eyebrow but didn't say a word.

4On Saturday, I found a folded note inside the harmonica case.
It was written in Uncle Dez's tall, slanted letters:
"Play a little every day,
until it starts to sound like you."

5So every evening after dinner,
I carried the harmonica down to our front steps.
I played the same slow song over and over
while buses sighed at the corner
and pigeons pecked at crumbs on the sidewalk.

6Some nights my breath ran out too soon.
Some nights I blew into the wrong hole.
But every evening, I went back to the steps.

7Then one warm night in August,
the song came out smooth, like water poured from a pitcher.
Beside the steps, a window creaked open.
Mrs. Alvarez leaned out on her elbows.
"Again," she said. "Play that one again."

8Kofi sat down next to me and hummed along.
A man walking his dog stopped to listen.
When I finished, Mrs. Alvarez clapped
so hard that her bracelets jingled.

9That night I called Uncle Dez
and played the whole song into the phone.
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, "There it is. That's what you sound like."