Annahallé's Song

Annahallé’s song 
Written in tandem with Leonard Miller

Page by page, one stroke at a time turning numbers into roller coasters, dripping crimson over a sea of images forged by words that crossed the lines, head bowed heavily over a book as thick as the unrelenting Russian mud that thwarted the Germans. Long soft hair piled messy on top of your head, streaked with color from the fading sun. The warm lights of home bathe your desk in soft light that glints off focused eyes. From the kitchen I hear you humming because like Lindsey’s flying notes, physics is just a matter of math. This is a perfect union you have discovered. As the aroma of your favorite squash soup catches your attention I am rewarded with a grateful smile, and while my mother’s heart wishes to release you from the heavy weight of your constant drive for academic excellence, it also calls out, with tearful knowledge of the consequences, saying fly my child, spread your wings and fly.