Miss Farida lovesvanilla-smelling candleswhich flickeragainst the sleeping couch.I place my sandalsbeside the spillof shoes and slippers strewnacross the plastic matin the hallway to her room.I see the Sesame Street stickers proppednear the electric piano,tangled in a hoopof dreaming dust,and the pedals, wrapped in a layerof fine metal.Miss Farida takes my stackof weary booksthat whimper as she turns to “Stepping Stones.”My delicate handslook like tiny mice skitteringacross the keys.I play to a beat from the metronomefast as a hummingbird’s heartbeat,slow as a whale’s.Miss Farida takes a pencilfrom her hair and writesin my notebook.“Tonight you will write a songabout New Year’s.”I pick up my denimbag and dumpmy books into it.Already, I begin to hearthe notes of endlesspossibilities for my composition:The orchestra of 10,000fuchsia fireworks explodingin the air,the symphony of sparklers,the dropping ball of melody,the score of the night,filled with new beginnings.