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Hymn for the Piano
Miss Fern, half-deaf and ninety-one,
listened to my thirteen-year-old self
play the Blue Danube Waltz in her living room—again and again,
told me to go home, work on expression
I hit that pedal too hard
watched her bony, practiced knuckles,
twisted at odd angles, flying across the keys,
flourishes rising from “How Great Thou Art,”
the chewed hymnals and antique beginner’s piano books
scattered in her spare, lonesome living room by the window—
cornfields, wind, barns, highways,
sweeping, weeping, time, seasons in,
seasons out, scales under my fingers,
thoughts far away.
A faceless porcelain woman
on the mantle, pictures of her hero husband
who was a prisoner in World War Two,
hot Ovaltine that burned my tongue,
soft sugar cookies crumbling slow with conversation
and we always reassured her we’d see her again
(again, again).
Hours pass—knitting needles,
cross-stitch images half-formed,
songs we play over and over
but never really love
wooden birds and coneflowers
a weary teacher, a thin, agile prisoner
of my music-bearing Wednesday presence
a secretive girl with empty pockets
still, I play my frozen songs for her,
mirrored in late afternoon sun,
laughing, careless,
her own feeble, aging laugh
a hoarse sound in her throat
the silence of cats and photographs
an opaque dream—
she says it makes the days go faster.
I detached myself from Miss Fern
like oak leaves from a drying acorn—
polite, precise,
and the last song I played for her was “Nadia’s Theme”
for the hundredth time—she called it beautiful,
told me to keep practicing, but I never cared
and I said see you next time, not goodbye—
but the time I saw her last, today,
was quiet and staid, as she had always been,
dark forest pools and children she’d oil-painted
her face like a closed piano lid.
Weary music, play and play,
to wooden ladies, turning, sigh,
and say, and say,
they’ll come back soon,
again, again.
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This is a tribute to my piano teacher and best friend who died recently. RIP Miss Fern. Someday, I will play our songs again.