Last week son the older and I watched a French film, Les Choristes, a story about a music teacher and a boarding school. This week the soundtrack arrives in the mail.
That evening son the older fills the kitchen sink with water, then puts on the CD, cranks up the volume, and, lyric sheet on countertop, sings along as he washes the pots from dinner.
The next day he sits at the piano and tries out chords. My son, the self-taught composer, at work.
(And I, the mama, so proud to see a seed, secretly planted, begin to sprout.)