Setting: Summer 2025 — Being subjected to a home concert no one asked for
Caleb has always been a little musician. He has a quiet, contemplative soul and long piano fingers. Back in first grade, he learned about Ray Charles at school and was completely captivated. Around the same time, he went through a little Beethoven phase — soft, serious music for his soft, serious soul. It was dramatic, heartfelt, and kind of perfect. For a while, it was the soundtrack of his tiny world.
He declared he wanted to play the “plano,” and he’s been in lessons ever since. Last year, he added French horn and chorus to his musical lineup. He’s serious about it. Literal. Focused. Careful.
Holden… is not quiet. Or serious. Definitely not contemplative.
Holden is feral. He’s a human tornado with sticky fingers and a laugh you can hear across the house. Every so often, he’ll flip on Caleb’s keyboard, mash random keys, and activate the godforsaken auto-accompaniment feature that sounds like a karaoke bar from 1987. It’s chaotic. It’s loud. It is not music. But still… he plays with the kind of confidence only a little brother can possess.
Recently, after one such performance, Papa smiled and said, “That was really good!”
From the other room, Caleb — deadpan and entirely sincere — chimed in:
“I’m not sure I agree. I mean… it was ALRIGHT.”
He wasn’t being mean. He was just being honest. Honest in the way that only Caleb knows how to be: thoughtful, careful, and completely literal.
Two brothers. One instrument.
One makes noise
The other makes music.
And somehow, in the middle of the chaos and the laughter and the off-key confidence, they're both still exactly who they're meant to be, each one playing their part.
This post is part of my One-Minute Memoir series — short reflections on small moments that still manage to say something big.
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