Thursday, May 06, 2010

An Ode to my Missing Piano

I haven't played a piano in probably six months. The very thought of that sent waves of anger, sadness, betrayal, and many other overly-dramatic emotions through me this afternoon. I miss it. I miss the feeling of those smooth, white keys as my fingers hover over and press them deftly. I miss the sound of a piano, the very soft tinks and lumbering clangs that drove my parents to the brink of madness when I was just starting out. I miss the sight of music notes, odd as that seems. I miss the clefs and staffs and wings on notes, the beauty of written music. And I miss the adrenaline of performing ever so slightly, just enough that it brings back memories of concerts and recitals, but not quite so much that I am daring to go out and do it all over again.

Why don't I have a piano? I had one growing up, and I stored my parents' piano when they lived in a rental house while their new house was being built. I tried to get by living in my apartment by using a cheap digital keyboard, but it didn't have enough keys and the right sound to do my heart good. It also couldn't hold big songbooks or more than two pages at a time, so I gave up on that device. After we got married, I didn't have room in our apartment to set up a piano anyway.

I am a pianist without a piano. I have a wonderful husband, a nice apartment, plenty of food, books galore, everything I need to live a contented life. Except a piano. And until I find myself at a real piano, or at least a weighted-key digital substitute, my life will certainly be missing a tiny fraction of my identity. Tiny, but important, my piano...

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