It was always in the corner of the family room,
a tall, voluptuous figure of shiny brown
topped with the curled tail of a seahorse,
leaning lazily against the wall,
cocky and familiar as a family member,
patiently waiting for my father's hands
to pull it into his arms.

The two of them stood side by side like brothers,
twins joined together
for jazz and big band music practice.

Sometimes my father coaxed me
small and timid into the living room
as smoky and bright as a spotlighted stage,
guitars and lap steel guitar joining the bass,
his musician friends seated, smiling at me.

A quiet man, my father let the bass's deep voice
speak for him, the notes thumping
like an adrenaline-fuelled heartbeat,
his brown fingers thick and full of jazz
as they moved agiley along the strings
like a sculptor's hands working in clay,
creating invisible masterpieces that hung on the air
of those safe childhood evenings.

I hear my father when I hear jazz.
I listen for the bass and he's there.
It's as if his heart is still beating somewhere,
telling me he's still with me
if I will only just listen.