Death's Song

6-Antiphon

Unsteady fingers trace the shapes of scales on the upright piano. Eager to master the art, the eight-year-old boy stretches his tiny hands as frequently as he can. His dad, always present, provides the encouragement a child requires to excel.

"You sound so put together, son!"

"Really, Dad?"

"Definitely!" He pats the boy on the back. "You sound so much more confident in these scales than you did last week, or even yesterday. Even if I hadn't gotten to hear you practice, I'd be able to tell."

"But I just want to play Mom's Song."

"I know, son, and you will. It just might take a little more practicing than you think."

"All right, but I hope I can play it soon."

"You will."

Small fingers continue to follow the arcs of scales and the zig-zags of Hanon exercises each day. The boy searches for his mother's song at the end of each day, but it always hovers just out of reach. Despite his precise experiments, the song eludes him. A year passes like this until his first recital.

Tiny figures in suits and dresses fill the darkened gym. They're all here for one reason: to perform. It's easy to tell the divas from the rest; they're the most comfortable onstage. Otherwise, the children walk up the steps already in tears or prone to erupt should anything go wrong. Thus enters the now nine-year-old boy. Unsure of his reasons for being there, he trudges up the steps to the piano that bathes in spotlight. He hops up onto the bench and sets his hands in C-position. Swallowing hard, he tries to breathe and count himself in, but his left pinkie strikes a key before he's ready to play. It's not a good start. Instead of taking a moment to recompose himself, he lets his right hand jump in. This results in a rendition of "Hot Cross Buns" that sounds accurately crossed and perhaps mixed a bit more than usual. When the buns come out of the oven, he runs off the stage, relieved to have all those eyes off him. He doesn't cry, for "boys don't cry." As he heads back to his father, he nearly collides with a pair of strangers who stand in shadow. Stopping, he looks up at them: one girl in white stands with a tall, dark man. They seem important. "Sorry," the boy whispers loudly before re-joining his father.

That boy grew up to be me, and on the way, I performed as little as I had to. I enjoy the technical side of piano, but performing can be left to the professionals.

*   *   *

Today, I walk back down to the dining room. Dad watches television in the other room, but I need this. Placing my fingers on the keys, the tips brush up and down the instrument's length, feeling each ridge where one key ends and the next begins. Some of the ivories miss jagged edges off their ends, but that gives the whole piano more character. As I begin pressing on keys, fingers go through much of the repertoire remembered from years ago. Happily, I feel what might be a victorious performance if nerves would settle down. Then, her song moves my fingers. Only the first part sticks in my mind now, so I play it. The story sings of the stronger portions of her life, what most people remember about her, her theme. Lost in song, I notice Dad's presence only when the last chord rings out, and his smile enters my consciousness.

"You used to call that Mom's Song, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I heard it when we were in the hospital."

"Did you ever find out what it was actually called?"

"No. I'm not sure if it was just in my head or playing in the hospital that day."