Teacher Contributions

Perfect

I drew a line and it was perfect.

I traced it back from side to side.

And when I ran and said, “Look, mom!”

She said, “It’s perfect!”—nearly cried.

With mom and dad for inspiration

To make my perfect parents proud

I stretched, twisted, shaped and molded

My perfect line and built it loud

That line became a gilded trumpet

With curves and color brought to life

My mom said that it was perfect:

“Someday, you’ll play that for your wife.”

By age 18 I played that trumpet

In perfect time and perfect tune

I mastered rhythm and vibrato

I lifted Armstrong from his tomb

And, though my melody was perfect

Behind the shiny golden brass

My lungs were empty, sore, and tired

My tongue was stiff, I thought it’d pass

Then,

I heard it—

As I ambled, anguished, through the street—

It stung my heart

And sent it bursting

Through my mouth, my hands, my feet

The tune caressed all of my body

Infused my lungs with air and life

Coming close to that piano

Released my pain, my fear, and strife

—And the idea

That I’d

EVER

have a wife—

I thrust my trumpet in a fire

Scalding memories from the past

As my tender soul recovered

I built a piano from the ash

I explored that perfect piano

And found perfection in myself

Every chord, and scale, and triad

The strings, the pedal, muffler felt

My piano playing was not perfect

Yet it felt perfect, nonetheless

Cause it was right and real and true,

Though it was harder to confess

I journeyed home to tell my secret

Passed perfect homes and perfect streets

Perfect lines in all directions

Perfectly groomed, perfectly neat

I turned the knob and I cried, “Mami!”—

The secret spilled from chest to throat—

“I’ll no longer play the trumpet.”

She disappeared and seemed to float.

I told myself that I was ready

To sever ties and let her go

Brick by brick I’d endeavored

To build a fort around my soul

For days and weeks and months I waited

With restless eyes and bated breath

As mom, and dad, and family

Mourned a certain sort of loss/death

When mom finally agreed to meet

On a Saturday afternoon

Her hand met my heart and knew it—

With no answer, I’d be gone soon

Before we parted, Mom said, “Mijo,

Do you recall the line you drew?

Though not the shape that I expected,

It’s perfect, still, because it’s you.”

• Jose Figueroa