My piano playing has a spotty history. The only thing consistent about it is my lack of accomplishment. I originally learned to play the organ, and played fairly well, but haven't had one of my own since I left my parents' house. We bought a second-hand piano a few years after we were married, and I set out to recover from several years without playing and to transition from organ to piano--something I have never actually accomplished. In time that old piano needed so much work that it was almost unplayable, and I gradually stopped playing.
Recently a friend got hold of some pianos that a school system was selling off and sold us one. It cost us more money to get the thing tuned and lubricated than the piano cost us. So I am back playing again. I pulled out the old book of sonatinas, and started working on them.
Yesterday I was playing one of those sonatinas, a rather jolly sounding thing, when I heard someone behind me coming down the stairs. In my peripheral vision I caught a glimpse of a man-sized figure and assumed it was my husband. It wasn't. It was my son. When I realized that, I was struck by a sudden memory.
He used to dance.
Was it so long ago? It seems only yesterday that I used to play that sonatina and my tow-headed toddler would gleefully bob and spin to its tune. Now he is a fifteen year-old, standing nearby, seemingly oblivious to the music, focused on putting his cell phone on the charger.
I stopped playing. "Do you remember when you used to dance to this?"
"You do? You remember that?"
I felt a little better.