You’ll never know the true value of a moment until it becomes a memory. – Andra Watkins
The antique piano witnessed a billion moments in its creaky life. It endured the first tentative plunks of lessons, the wild thrashings of tiny humans, the heavings of movers from there. No there. No really…….there.
It leaned its dinged wood against the wall and picked dust from stained ivory teeth. More a piece of furniture than an instrument, its stretched strings echoed with Chopin recitals, with masterful hymns, with one moment a crescendo of chords and sharps and flats.
The piano longed for someone, anyone, to crawl in its lap and transform a moment to music again.
A little boy heard its whispered pleas. He was accustomed to plonking his fat fingers and fists into the keys, his own euphoria of erratic song. An extension of his voice, really. He liked the way it transformed his unspoken thoughts into sound. Barked orders of staccato. I love you Daddy in one slow, soft middle C. Joy in a barrage of clashing notes, pounded out at once.
He grasped for joy again.
But he never expected to make music with his toes, with the flat soles of his feet. From on high, floating above the piano’s ivory lap, he stepped through different emotions, danced into the moment he made.
The piano welcomed butterfly kisses and knew she would always recall the glorious little boy. Wherever the moving men carted her. Whatever became of her sunken keys. However she landed, she knew one more moment of bliss.
Moments matter. They are the building blocks of memory.
Photograph Credit: Andra Watkins
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