Home: Part 24

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.

February 1958 

The piano in our basement had been shoved into a corner as an afterthought. In many of our neighbors' homes, the basements had been finished; they served as game rooms or dens or extra bedrooms. The wall studs and concrete foundation in our basement were visible, more warehouse than living space. 

I have no memory of the piano's actual appearance--it was simply always there. Only my mother played, and then infrequently. My bedroom was above the piano's corner, and I would lie on my bed and listen to my mother play, listen to the soft curses as she repeated passages over and over. I often wondered if she practiced when she was alone, when my sister and I were at school.

"I like that one," I said once as I sat on the concrete floor and watched her play.

"Beethoven," she said. "'Fur Elise.' Everyone has to play it at some point. Most of it is easy." When she played, she tilted her head to the right just so, and she would sometimes shut her eyes. Her back was straight. She seemed happy sitting there, working her hands across the keyboard, her feet on the pedals. 

"When did you learn to play?" I asked.

"My grandmother had a piano," she said. "You never knew her. She taught me the notes when I was a little girl. She was patient with me. I couldn't use two hands for a long time. 'Don't think about your hands,' she would say. 'Think about the music. Your hands will follow the music.'" She looked at her hands. "I was never very good, but my grandmother also told me that I didn't have to be. She'd say, 'Just play. When your grandfather is angry with me, or when I am lonely, I always have the piano and the music. They are never angry.'"

"It looks hard," I said.

"It is, sometimes. And then it gets easier. See, watch." She started with her right hand, slowly. "'Fur Elise'--everyone knows it." She played the opening notes over and over as though she were learning it again. "Then, the left hand."

The concrete floor was cold and hard, but I sat there and watched how she played, and I wondered if she was lonely, too.