At nine I took piano lessons,
my invitation to sit at the bench
rather than observing, coming after
what felt like forever.
I was giddy, finally able to become
the pianist I knew was locked inside.
My small hands. Each time
I clambered onto the bench
that was too large, swung my legs,
and tried to force my small hands
into awkward positions,
I imagined that soon
my mom would sit beside me,
tell me I was doing a wonderful job,
Time wore on.
I practiced,
faithfully,
but my fingers and mind resisted.
I found myself starting out the window
day dreaming of climbing trees,
riding my bike,
floating sticks in an irrigation ditch.
From the kitchen my mom called out my mistakes.
“That should be a flat. Try again.”
What held promise soon became a chore.
“Nope not right that time either.
Go slower.
Practice just that part.
Just those two notes.
Do you want me to show you?”
Both my frustration and failures increased.
I had failed.
I could not force musical talent on myself,
could not be the daughter
they had hoped for and believed in.
My mom would be the only piano player in the house;
I would remain an observer.
I tried taking lessons again,
this time in secret.
I hoped by playing the piano
I would prove myself worthy of being her daughter.
I planned to practice in secret
until shortly before
I would leave for college,
then play a concert for my mom.
I imagined her listening,
being moved and rushing to me in love,
telling me how proud she was.
Music pulled me deep into the sound,
offered me a place where
I could disappear and
I wouldn’t be found until I wanted to be.
I held the pedal down again,
enjoying the way the music embraced me.