The piano has 88 keys, 52 white, 36 black and through the years I have touched and loved every single one of them. I first learned the piano at the tender age of six but didn’t really appreciate my knowledge until I was twelve. It was that year I figured out I could pick up any piece of music and, through practice and determination, play what I wanted. That was it for me, I had a crush on my piano that morphed into all out devotion.
Sitting at middle C gives me a thrill. All of the possibilities, all of the tunes, all of the notes. Those extra high notes clear at the right hand of the piano, sounding so pure and innocent. I’ve only touched them briefly as in a trill or an extra long set of scales. Then there are the bass notes, deep, sexy, meant to touch your soul.
I’ve gone through dry spells of not playing, just dusting and using him as a display piece. That is not how he should be treated. And yet, life got in the way and he languished by the side lines.
Yes, I’ve designated my piano a “he.” No woman could ever make me feel the way I do when I sit at his keyboard. It may sound sexist but no woman can give me that deep, heart thumping, mind splitting sound when I run my fingers all the way down to the low notes and just pause there, letting the sound reverberate through me and into the room. Good grief, it sounds like I’m having an affair.
The husband occasionally enjoys sitting while I master the ivories and I just realized that sounds a lot like a menage a trois.
Just recently I’ve come to the conclusion that he needs to play a bigger role in my life. Learning to play was earned and should be respected. So, last week out came some sheet music, keys were dusted and polished and I sat down to see if I could remember what to do.
It appears I can see the music and have my hands go through the appropriate motions but have no knowledge of why. I’ve buried music theory so far in the back of my brain that its file folder is lost. Why my hands can still fly over the keys without my brain engaging is a mystery to me. The muse calls it muscle memory. (Although he refers to that phrase in a totally different context.)
Now I am determined to relearn and polish my skills. Old loves do not go away. They just reside in the back of your mind ready to surface when you most need them. I plan to bring this love to the fore front and reconnect in a magnificent way. I may even take lessons again to hone this craft.
I love those keys and strings and what they can produce. I love the feel, the sound and the look of them. I love this instrument above all others. Yes, it is my life long affair and the husband is okay with that.
magicalmess 