THE OLD PIANO
The old piano, alone and forgotten in the dark, cold garage.
Days, months, years. Unplayed. Silent. Still. Deaf, mute, the black and white keys
paralyzed. Without a voice.
The piano ached for music. To vibrate and hum and ring out melodies
that blew across its strings. To feel the little fingers tapping, stacks of
music books thumped on its top. To hear the chords and the notes tickling up and
down its keyboard, played over and over and over. To once again know the power
of its voice, of sounds rich, deep, powerful, resonating, full. To know the
quiet whispers, the sweet breath of a pause, a moment hung in the air, a breath
before beginning again.
It was so much fun. Each bottom that had plunked on to its
bench had a unique style. It knew the feel of each one, the style of playing,
the sounds drawn out by the different sets of fingers.
One girl, lightweight, never still, scooted along with her
hands, up and down, back and forth, filling the afternoons with voice and song.
Her foot pumped the pedals, the sound resonating through each fiber of its frame.
Another girl, sure, solid, rooted on the bench. She leaned side to side as she reached,
sounding the chords, as solid and sure as she sat.
The boys never sat as long as the girls. Their music was
rowdy, full, alive, fun. One laughed,
making up tunes and chords and silly sounds, playing, exploring, his enthusiasm
spilling into song.
Moved to a new house, it sat, quiet most of the days.
Peaceful, part of the home, but quiet. The bustle continued around it, but not
from it. Music, no more. No one sat to play, to set its strings humming.
Another move, this time, set aside in the garage. Cold,
dark, alone. Silent. A quiet ache to be a tool, an instrument to be played, to
have music coursing through its every part. Oh, someday?
Again, a move. Darkness, noise, motion that set its strings
vibrating, but not music. Humming through its strings. Like a warm up? Maybe
the people would play it again, soon?
Bumping, bouncing down a ramp on its wheels. Clunking with a
thud at the bottom. Lifted, hands
grasping, grunts, laughter, voices, “Wait, right, another step, okay, got it.”
Rolling along a carpet, pushed up against a wall.
The cover opened, light fell across the dusty keys. The old
piano wanted to shake like a dog waking up. Free. Stretch.
A new bottom on the bench. Larger, but strong. Fingers on
the keys. Tentative. Parts of songs, experimenting, a piece of music, a bit of
melody, here and there.
Music books, again against its stand. Partnered with hands
and heart, ringing out. Oh, the relief to be playing again, resonating loud,
full of song and soul. With a voice to
carry beauty and melody across the days, to fill a home with music. The old
piano, heart and soul.
