A short momologue about a piano, a note and the results of not playing.
|she’ll be coming Word count: 332
“When you know the notes to sing, you can sing most anything.” But not that song. “Don’t sing the song. Play it on the piano. It’s your turn to do it.” So you do. You slowly move toward the piano, quietly sit down on the bench and begin to play. “DO”. And that’s as far as you ever get. Just “DO” and you can hear it beginning.
She’s already pushed her chair back from the table and stumbled
into the kitchen. Water running. Then she’ll be coming with a damp cloth in one hand and a dry towel in the other. And she’s coming now. She’s coming in those clumsy shoes with the holes cut into the sides, which she put there so her bunions wouldn’t hurt. She’s coming in those nylon stockings rolled down into neat little donuts just below her knees. She’s coming in that house dress that’s three sizes too big for her now and with no bra since you witnessed her removing it at the dinner table (a trick you now know and will someday share with your friends). She’s coming and as she rounds the corner of the living room the chairs step aside, even the carpet rolls back in terror and in one last leap, she’s upon you and it begins…..
“plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk,” down the piano keys and then,
“plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk,” back up the keys.
“There you go. Now you can play.” Smiling back, you say, “thanks Gram.”
And as she ambles her way back into the kitchen, you turn to your brother and sisters and snicker. It worked! But you knew it would. It always does. And though you won’t understand it for some time to come, something inside feels bad because you never will learn to play the piano, and you never will ask her any questions, and you never will know her outside of this, and that, you know,