I can see you listening to your music. I wonder what it sounds like—I wonder what it is in the chords and melodies that makes you smile like that. It must be something special. Is it a soprano voice, or perhaps alto? Or maybe there’s no words at all; maybe it’s just instrumentals you hear.

Now your mouth opens, you say something to my sister. I can see your mouth moving; and the way she leans in to hear what you have to say. The way her lips move in response to yours. What did you tell her? Her finger reaches out to press a button on the CD player, but for me there is no change.

Outside, I see all the colors of early evening. I watch the trees blow in the breeze, I see the birds resting on the branch. Can you draw me the birds’ twitters; can you write out the sound of the leaves? I want to hear.

“What color is the music?” I ask you, but you don’t know how to tell me. Music doesn’t have a color, you think. Just sound.

I cannot hear your music. My world is silent. But I can make my own finger ballet.