Listen for it.
Listen.
Just listen.
Stop and just listen to me.
Match me.
Match my pitch.

The interval is all I get. My pitch is imperfect and cannot be improved except in the relative space of the interval of the space intoned in between the tones and that is what I have to find when I listen. The interval that I get is rooted in no tone only toneless tuneless pop pap I practiced aping and ruined my voice and ruined my ear and ruined my sound and my sound resounds into the ground and it confounds and has no report and no import because my left ear already died not the ear but inside my mind the sound died and I am imbalanced and all I ever got anyway was the interval spanning from birth to death and for that I should be grateful because so many get so much less.

So much love and support. So much caring kindness. Still, I nohow know how to support my own voice. Sit up straight. Breathe better. Backless bench breathe better. Piano hands, they are a great gift. They can reach so far. They can span the keys. But they fumble. They flail. I fail. I grumble. I cannot find it. Why are you doing that with your mouth? Smile at the back of your throat. Smile during church service. They love you so much they don’t even shudder. I cannot hear it. But I’m getting better. I’m so much better than I was. I am so much closer to having a voice. So much closer to knowing how to read. So much closer to knowing how to count. Someday, maybe I can even crawl if I keep moving forward. So many loving teachers and each time I reach toward one I fall further down into the fetal position where it is safe and no one has to hear me.

Baby steps. If I take baby steps I might add more steps. I might sharpen. But for today, all of it is flat.