My Music by Karen Engstrom

Maple Plain, Minnesota

My Music

by Karen Engstrom

It’s my music. I play it whenever I want, age twelve, new black plastic transistor AM radio tucked by my head on the pillow where parents can’t hear it.

Off to school all on my own, lonely and feeling lost, my flip-up portable record player is my constant solace.

A man, no, a boy really, controls my music, insinuates his. My music’s missing years.

A single mom, I play my music loud in the car. A toddler doesn’t mind. I dance to it in the kitchen, making her laugh.

Then her music intrudes.

“Mommy, mommy. I wanna hear the song about the teddy bear. Again, Mommy. Again.” I switch to my music as soon as she’s asleep.

Age 14, she is in like-total-love with her music. Mine gets over-ruled, thumbs-down, made fun of, and delegated to my shower.

She wants to go to the concert. “OK, but I drive and I’ll be there too.” Some amount of grumping, but eventually I’m a Cool Mom. SillyPutty mushed into my ears preserves sanity.

“Mom, I’m going to the Weekend Music Festival. Yes, I promise to drive careful. Love you!”

“This is my guy, Mom. He really gets my music. We’re happy!” The DJ played a great mix at the wedding.

“How was your flight, Mom? Thanks for coming to babysit while we go to the concert upstate.” Driving her car, I turn on the radio, surprised at her station. I smile and sing along. My granddaughter says incredulously, “You know that song? Mom loves that song!” So, we sing it together.

After all, it’s my music to share.