My parents got rid of the piano. I can't say that without letting tears glaze my eyes. I suppose it is just a piece of furniture. No. It's more than that. I would walk into the living room and feel my heart jump at the thought of pulling out the bench and lifting the pale wooden cover. My heart always did that, whether I played or not. I expressed myself on that piano long before i could plunk at the keys of my laptop. My fingers would spread over that ivory, they just fall into place. I barely used music. I just used what was in my head. Lately it was Musetta's Waltz, or Nessun Dorma.
I played it one last time before they took it away. Maybe I should have played it more before that. I sat in front of those keys and I was four years old again, playing what was in my head. I imagined, as I played, my parents surrounding me with tears in their eyes. My father places his hand on my shoulder and tries to understand what it means that they're giving it away. He changes his mind, apologizes, and I continue to play. They gave it away and no one understands what it meant for them to do that.
I have a guitar now, but I didn't have a guitar when I was four. I didn't figure out the Japanese theme from my Raffi tape on the guitar. Or the theme to Edward Scissorhands when i was seven. I can't sit at the guitar and touch my youth. "We'll buy you a keyboard," I've had repeated to me. A keyboard isn't the same. Any Other Piano Isn't The Same.
How long can one go on, lamenting over am instrument?