her voice is somehow loud and soft,
and she doesn’t like my music.
she doesn’t sing loud,
but when she does, we laugh.

her hair is never combed
and her clothes always dark
and warm.
and her bed is our home plate.

the sound of her home
is a sound of sweet joy
and music in a language i don’t understand.
but i sing along.

there is a certain comfort to know
there is always someone
who will wear a smile for you
even on days when you are unable.

and it’s a comfort to hear
laughter
the sweetest laughter
on nights when you can’t drown out the thunderstorms.