Ode to 'Ode to Joy'

My 10-year-old son is practicing 
"Ode to Joy" and the notes march 
orderly enough at first, but then 
detach and drift to the dark corners 
of my apartment. I'm half-listening,
thinking about someone who's left me.
It's work, this life. Against detachment.
I get up, sweep the notes into a dust pan, 
and pour them back into his clarinet. 
My son smiles. "I may have to fake it 
at the Christmas pageant tomorrow." 
Sometimes you do. I tap his chest 
and tell him not to worry, I tell him
that the song is there inside.

I don't know anything about music, 
but I do have an ear for happiness. 
I know it runs like an electric wire 
down through time. I know it hums in us, 
even when we cannot hear it, even when 
we are its deaf conductors.