My piano teacher's name is Rosy. She teaches piano lessons on Sunday afternoons.
I can hear her thick step on the deck, when she comes by. She wears bright shoes but never heels. Heels are no good for pedals. I personally wear bare feet, during piano lessons. My feet are mostly clean feet (like my past), because I am not old, am I. I am just a child taking piano lessons, because that's what good children do on Sunday afternoons.
"Hello!" Rosy exclaims, when I open the door (when I open my own door I feel less like a child). When Rosy says "hello," it is a word warm and full of respect. Her voice is distinctive, like red balloons floating into deep sky. She always says "take care" before she leaves.
Our door is crystal, or something. All doors should look like my door (beautiful door). This door would read e.e. cummings if she could. Not all doors can read e.e. cummings, you know. But after a certain amount of coulding and woulding there is only how things are (which is not always my favorite).
"Scale" Rosy says, opening my piano notebook and looking at me hard. I nod and I smile and I play my scale. You should know that I don't like piano. Piano is all black and white keys and it doesn't make sense to me. I can memorize a piece and play it perfectly, but it's always drifting. If I don't play it again soon it will get off at the next bus stop and be gone.
I don't like piano lessons, but I like Rosy. At the end of my lesson I sit quietly while Rosy writes down my next assignment in my purple notebook. Her handwriting is terrible. She is a nurse too, I think, which explains her handwriting.
The best part about piano lessons is when Rosy performs for me. Today, at the end of my lesson, she says, "Debussy, The Sunken Cathedral," and her fingertips swallow chords like salami. I just sit on the edge of the bench beside her and watch the memories unfold. They are not necessarily pretty, are they.
She says, "You can do this too, if you practice every day."
I nod but I do not smile. Rosy is one of those beautiful but sad people. One of those people who fills you with respect, but you also wonder who hurt them, or if they ever had piano lessons on Sunday afternoon, with mother preparing dinner in the kitchen and the fan kindly whirring above, softening the sound of the baby grand.
One day Rosy does not come. The afternoon feels empty and shallow, like someone stepped in my sandcastle while I was fetching water from the sea.
After that Sunday she never comes again. Mom tries calling her and lets me leave a message on Thursday morning. I say, "Hi Rosy. Miss you. My G flat major scale is ready, and i want to hear more Debussy next time. Take care." Mom hugs me. Mom's hugs are great, but Rosy's hugs are something different -- like passing through a warm, dark cloud if you're on the top of a mountain or in a ravine. Either way.
(I don't play piano anymore. The white and black keys have turned into keys again, with no soul, and my scales have gotten off at the next bus stop. Rosy was one of those good things in childhood that came to my crystal door on Sundays. She taught me to smile and nod, and now I'm tempted not to. But I think I remember Rosy saying that I should keep smiling and nodding, even when a good thing is gone).
I can hear her thick step on the deck, when she comes by. She wears bright shoes but never heels. Heels are no good for pedals. I personally wear bare feet, during piano lessons. My feet are mostly clean feet (like my past), because I am not old, am I. I am just a child taking piano lessons, because that's what good children do on Sunday afternoons.
"Hello!" Rosy exclaims, when I open the door (when I open my own door I feel less like a child). When Rosy says "hello," it is a word warm and full of respect. Her voice is distinctive, like red balloons floating into deep sky. She always says "take care" before she leaves.
Our door is crystal, or something. All doors should look like my door (beautiful door). This door would read e.e. cummings if she could. Not all doors can read e.e. cummings, you know. But after a certain amount of coulding and woulding there is only how things are (which is not always my favorite).
"Scale" Rosy says, opening my piano notebook and looking at me hard. I nod and I smile and I play my scale. You should know that I don't like piano. Piano is all black and white keys and it doesn't make sense to me. I can memorize a piece and play it perfectly, but it's always drifting. If I don't play it again soon it will get off at the next bus stop and be gone.
I don't like piano lessons, but I like Rosy. At the end of my lesson I sit quietly while Rosy writes down my next assignment in my purple notebook. Her handwriting is terrible. She is a nurse too, I think, which explains her handwriting.
The best part about piano lessons is when Rosy performs for me. Today, at the end of my lesson, she says, "Debussy, The Sunken Cathedral," and her fingertips swallow chords like salami. I just sit on the edge of the bench beside her and watch the memories unfold. They are not necessarily pretty, are they.
She says, "You can do this too, if you practice every day."
I nod but I do not smile. Rosy is one of those beautiful but sad people. One of those people who fills you with respect, but you also wonder who hurt them, or if they ever had piano lessons on Sunday afternoon, with mother preparing dinner in the kitchen and the fan kindly whirring above, softening the sound of the baby grand.
One day Rosy does not come. The afternoon feels empty and shallow, like someone stepped in my sandcastle while I was fetching water from the sea.
After that Sunday she never comes again. Mom tries calling her and lets me leave a message on Thursday morning. I say, "Hi Rosy. Miss you. My G flat major scale is ready, and i want to hear more Debussy next time. Take care." Mom hugs me. Mom's hugs are great, but Rosy's hugs are something different -- like passing through a warm, dark cloud if you're on the top of a mountain or in a ravine. Either way.
(I don't play piano anymore. The white and black keys have turned into keys again, with no soul, and my scales have gotten off at the next bus stop. Rosy was one of those good things in childhood that came to my crystal door on Sundays. She taught me to smile and nod, and now I'm tempted not to. But I think I remember Rosy saying that I should keep smiling and nodding, even when a good thing is gone).
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