Left-Handed Morning
a childhood reverie
Dew Sweepers The 18th
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I was four the first time I held a golf club—left-handed, small, bright red grips made for kids who hadn’t yet learned how to compromise. My dad’s brothers were in town, a weekend of uncles and laughter and Montgomery Municipal. They teed off like giants while I trailed with my tiny set, mimicking swings that felt like rituals. Dad was good at that—sports as love language. Golf, church softball, a hoop in the driveway. Time in motion.
When school started, I slipped quietly into right-handed desks. Made things easier—for the teacher, for the rhythm of the classroom. People-pleasing came easy. But something in me stayed rooted in that left hand. Years later, at the piano, it showed up again—strong, fast, sure. My teacher saw it. Assigned me Chopin’s Revolutionary Étude, a piece that storms from the bass line, all fire and defiance. Most kids feared the left hand. Mine was ready.
That arc—golf grip to piano etude, childhood fairway to structured cadence—it's all there in Dew Sweepers and The 18th. The quiet precision, the emotional muscle memory. First swing and last light. The hum beneath the color, like a note you can feel but never quite name.