Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
I hate it when he plays that damn piano. Hate it. I know why he does it; it reminds him of her. But that doesn't mean I have to like it. I get enough reminders of her every day.
A half-noticed reflection. A flashing blink in the bathroom mirror. Lingering under the toothpaste stains and steam streaks. I see her. She lives in me.
My red hair sets me apart from them, their blonde and brown camaraderie. Upon seeing family photos, there are comments. It's nice that he adopted even if he had four of his own and a dead wife. They think Kayo's adopted - and she is, in an informal way. No paperwork. Just fingerprints of love. Ours. But they think I'm adopted, too. Because I'm different. I stand out. A red tulip among daisies. But I'm not adopted. I just look like my dead mother.
Mom played the piano. Mom was beautiful. Mom died fifteen years ago. I shouldn't be this choked up. But I am.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cozy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.
No matter where we lived, the piano took centre stage. Mom took centre stage. She was The Centre.
We moved around her, orbiting in the elliptical ways of children. Sometimes close, good as good could be. Sometimes far, scowling in red-faced fury at a denied toy or a portion of broccoli. But always around her, circling and twisting - always returning even from afar.
I remember the ranch. I remember when we moved into the Kansas farmhouse for a while when Dad was expanding the company. We boxed up our lives and shunted half our belongings into a U-Haul, the other half into short-term storage. But the piano came with us. And God, how I remember it well.
We'd sit around, protected from the winter frost by triple-glazing in antique frames. Flames would lick. Firewood would crack and splinter. And we'd sit around the piano, Gordon nothing more than a baby on Mom's lap, Alan not even a consideration. And Mom would play and sing, her red hair caught in a loose twist, her smile endless. And it was the best time of my life.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
Of course, she's dead now. Even in our modern world, cancer still bites deep. There's only so much they can do. Her body wilted under radiation. Her muscles atrophied, rotting beneath her paper skin. Her mouth still smiled - but weakly. Hardly. Her eyes sank. Dimmed.
There was no more piano.
Virgil plays now. He has Mom's notebooks, her manuscripts. He plays the songs she wrote. Tweaks her tunes. Makes them his own but still honours her passion.
When he plays, I see her face. Just like I see it in the mirror. But it's not the endless smile or the red twist that flickers out. Under the harsh white light of the bathroom strip light, humming above me, I don't see the beauty. I see the sunken eyes and the half-smile. I want to see the glory but all I see is the pain.
I hate it when he plays that damn piano.