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.
