I ask him if I can sit next to him
and he says yes,
so we sit side- by- side
together
he
and
I
His fingers touch the keys with conviction
while mine graze them timidly
as if I’m meeting an old friend
who seems less familiar than I had hoped
and it’s all I can do
to hide
my disappointment
He has trouble with this song
asks for my help
so
he takes the right
I take the left
and together we take on Chopin
while I whisper to myself:
Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge
We sit
side-by- side
on this shiny wooden bench
making mistakes
making music
making memories
together
He asks me why I stopped
and I tell him it’s because the song is over
but it’s not what he meant
“Why did you ever stop playing the piano, mom?”
I let the question hang in the air for a moment
before I let it land upon my shoulders
where it burdens me with memories of
missed practices
procrastination
broken promises
before finally giving up
and
QUITTING
The word lingers a little after I say it
and I look over at him
wanting him to see the regret in my eyes
hoping he won’t make the same mistake
and not just with pianos
I tell him
in so many words
that I wish I had stuck with it
especially when it got hard
“That requires resilience and commitment
and both come in handy in life.”
We sit side-by-side
in silence
on that tiny little bench
and I let my fingers slide over the keys
until I cannot stop them
and suddenly they are playing a
rusty version
of a song I used know much better
He turns to me,
my son of 8 years
and tells me
(in a voice full of that childish wisdom we tend to lose when the world demands we stop listening to such nonsense)
“You know, mom. It’s not too late. You can play again. You should play again.”
He’s so smart.
Much smarter than I.
And that’s exactly how it should be.