I can’t stop walking into my living room. My breath gets taken away and my heart flutters when I walk in and see what was added to the room yesterday.
My grandmother’s piano. My grandmother who recently passed away. Leaving me sad that i didn’t give her more of me. That I didn’t make more of an effort. Has now left me this gift. This extraordinary gift.
A fixture that for my entire life sat in my grandmother’s living room. And before her living room, (and before my life) sat in HER mother’s living room. A piano that my dad learned to play as a little boy.
A very old piece of furniture, that is now breathing new life into my room. It will give me the chance to add new warmth and beauty to my house by filling it with the music that I learned so many years ago. It will give my children the chance to have the same passion I had as a child, learning to play those black and white keys.
I imagine (once the piano is in tune again) sitting with my cup of coffee in the morning playing quietly as the snow falls softly outside the window. I hope to relearn the ragtime music I once loved to let my fingers dance to. I believe it will be another outlet for me. An outlet I can use when I am unable to find words to write here, I instead can lose myself there. When my mind is too full (as it usually is), I can release it through the music.
Yesterday I watched Hannah sit on the old bench in front of the piano. Tapping at the out of tune keys. She looked like me. Just like me. The age I was when I first learned to play scales and first songs. Her legs unable to reach the pedals. Who knows if she’ll ever learn to play more than chopsticks. I hope she does. So she can feel proud of starting a new song and making it through to the end. So she can see my smile as she plays a song I once played. So she can play her favorite show tunes and sing at the top of her lungs along with the notes.
My parents brought over a box of piano music books yesterday when the piano was delivered. It was stacked with music I played over the 13 years on that bench. Books with my teacher’s notes dated 1977. Stickers showing I had done a great job and could move on to the next song. Notes telling me to slow down, not rush, play quieter or with more gusto. Songs I can’t believe I actually learned to play with so many notes covering the page. Songs that I’m sure would be impossible for me to learn again. The pages of the books have yellowed. A reminder that once again, I’m “old” and time sure does fly. But how cool it is that no matter how old the pages are, the music written on the pages, could once again sound new. Played by my old fingers. Or Hannah’s new ones.
I love my new old piano. And the newness it will bring back to my life.