Image courtesy of dan / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Mother sat softly playing her piano in the early morning. Father read the news paper while smoking his pipe and I at the hearth with a warm cup of cocoa. The snow had just fallen in the night and we spent our morning enjoying the stillness. As the sun rose, it bathed Mother in a warm glow from the picture window.
I don’t remember what she was playing that morning, but it was solid and smooth. Father had bought her the baby grand for her birthday a number of years ago and she played it every Saturday morning without fail until her death.
The winter brought out her softer and sadder tones, but the summer always brought warm inviting melodies through the house. On Sundays after church she would sit with me in front of the ivory keys and teach me. She was patient while I struggled through Chopin or Beethoven and always congratulated me at the end of our lessons.
After she died, the piano came to me and for years after I left the cover on unable to look at it or take in it’s beauty.
Until one fine winter morning when the mood took me. I can’t explain it, but something awoke in me. I slowly removed the cover to see the beautiful piano of my youth display itself. At first I just gazed upon the keys wondering if I could remember them. I ran my finger up and down them gently and then slowly and quietly began to play.
The music awoke my husband who was a late riser. Soon he found his way to my fathers old chair and in time our young son, only four years old landed in his lap. They watched me for a time as I remembered my mother in song and from that point on, the piano was never covered again.