Conducting the Solos of Salinger.

For Mrs. Singer, English Teacher.

She is captivating, this conductor

Of sorts. We look on. Her voice, her baton, gives life

To the words on the page. I hold my back against my chair, hypnotized.

My arms wrapped around my body, In the dim light we look on.

Her voice swells, you can see the crescendo within her body

You feel it inside yours. You feel the question she has posed.

Frightening? Yes. For there are no

answers. This is not a familiar song.

I squeeze myself. Oh please let me squeeze this question

right out of me. Accelerando. The chalk flies

like rosin through the air. It catches the sun,

slanting through the window. And then she is illuminated.

Center stage. The sun, her spotlight.

In a trance we watch. We wait.

We trust.

She holds the fermata

Then she lets us down on a decresendo, a ritardando.

As the solo nears its end, each member

Of her audience has changed. Each of us

affected. And she is conducting the Solo

of Salinger, to a hall

Of Holdens.

And ‘I was damn near bawling…

God, I wish you could’ve been there.’