As the saying goes, Spring has sprung.

But for the first time since he was born, I’m experiencing it without my No. 1 Son.

I watch the trees show signs of life,

Successfully surviving this winter’s long strife.

The grass is no longer brown and dull and dormant.

Uneven blades of it grow wild among weeds that torment.

Its greenery is slight, but weeks from now it will be bright.

When Easter Sunday comes, the lilies will be white,

Some yellow, some pink, but always horns of light.

That Sunday signals the end of Lent and

The church organ pipes swell grand announcing we no longer need to repent.

I recall attending church where Tommy would play.

I’d watch him sit erect while his hands and feet performed that day.

His body, so full of the tones the organ emitted,

Would move most gracefully, so appropriately fitted.

My smile lovingly wide, my heart so proud,

I never imagined I would have such a child.

For the closing song, “He Lives!” the choir would bellow.

Attendees leave church feeling Easter-ly and mellow.

I’m sure that this Easter Tommy is continuing his mission

Of directing a choir, of angels now, and I’m listening

For when Gabriel’s horn does his grand solo.

I’ll stand at attention, wait my cue as an alto

And be ready to announce proudly with that same wide smile

That that’s my son, the organist, Tommy Wright, take a bow.