I've had an odd yearning lately to sit in a warm, sun-lit room in bare feet and cotton pj's, letting my fingers roll over white and black ivory keys, meandering through rhythms and pieces I still have burned in memory from childhood... or trying something new.
I miss music. I miss playing music. It's been seven years since I've picked up my clarinet. Even longer in regards to a viola. Piano? I tinkered around a bit during the Christmas From Hell two years back, but otherwise haven't played since college. While I can still read treble and bass clefs just fine, I honestly don't know if I'd remember how to read an alto clef.
It's funny-- a few weeks ago, I made some passing reference to getting a piano for the Florida room. Not that we can afford one right now, unless I find one at an estate consignment (which is possible, but will require me to scout for it-- getting rid of an old upright piano is a chore). And Erich comments how he didn't even know I played the piano.
That made me pause for a moment-- because it seems so strange to me that the man I share my life with didn't know that. Even if I haven't been playing for years, music has been such a strong point of my life since I was in grade school. I guess I just assume (incorrectly, obviously) that everyone I'm close friends with has known this. Friends from grade school blend into high school into college into Boston life post-college into now. Particularly when so many people now are blended from my stages of friendships. The Boston University grads will joke about something, and Erich will get confused-- and it takes everyone a few minutes to realize that he didn't know any of us then, so he has no idea what we're talking about.
Maybe it's springtime that's making me yearn for some "key fumbling." Part of it is remembering my days of practicing on the piano in my dad's basement, trying desperately hard not to press too firmly on the keys. I never wanted to let anyone hear my mistakes-- especially my brother, who teased constantly. The idea of someone hearing my mistakes terrified me for some reason. Perfectionism to a fault, perhaps?
In any case, I miss it. I want to be able to putter on a Sunday morning with a cup of coffee and the mock-ivory, bouncing the opening riff of Piano Man or rolling through a minuet by Mozart. I hope to get a piano some day. I feel like it will happen someday-- perhaps I'm simply seeing memories that aren't yet set.
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