Day 12: Black and White

Write about where you feel most at home. 

In front of me are columns of black and white;

above that, swirled lines and notes and words put me in a trance.

My hands automatically feel for the keys and 

my fingers gently glide over each ivory row,

the room fills with Edward Grieg’s “Morning” and

I close my eyes;
I need not look at the music,

my fingers remember where to go on their own. 

I’m sitting at my piano. 

I feel power in knowing that 

my two hands can create a masterpiece,

bring tears of joy to the people listening,

and fill the room with soft melodies.

My mom signed me up for piano lessons 

when I was seven years old. 

I didn't enjoy it much but 

I knew my mom always dreamed of 

having a daughter that played

so I continued my lessons and 

let her French braid my hair and 

dress me up and 

invite her friends to my recitals. 

At seven years old, however, 

time was much too valuable to be spent practicing 

or going to my weekly thirty minute lesson. 

The passion wasn't there.

Saddened by the news,

my mom told me I would regret it

but I brushed that comment off

like I did the dirt on my knees

or the grass stains on my church dresses. 

Of course, my mom was right. 

As I began high school, I realized

I wanted to be like the kids who could 

pick up an instrument and play something beautiful. 

My mom cried when I told her I wanted

to begin lessons again. 

We found a teacher and 

bought a used keyboard and

I sat down at a piano for the first time in five years. 

I could barely identify the notes on the sheet of music

but my teacher told me to play what I remembered. 

I told her I didn’t remember anything

but she urged me to close my eyes and 

place my hands on the piano. 

I dutifully obliged and suddenly my hands began moving,

floating to keys with names I could not think of. 

Beethoven’s “Für Elise” permeated my teacher’s house

and when I finished, my heart was racing. 

That’s when my passion began.

I had an essay prompt in middle school,

one that required me to write about 

how different the world would be without color. 

I didn’t have a good answer then, but I do now. 

If the world was ever devoid of color, 

I would be perfectly content,

for I’d still have my columns of black and white.