The Bittersweet Memory of a Pianist

Listen to this while you read:

I remember being really nervous. The morning sun was softly hitting my back while I sat on the piano bench, staring at the keys. I took a deep breath and began to play. 

I could feel her looking at me. 

When we weren’t speaking, when I thought the story had already ended, I learned how to play “Song on the Beach/Photograph” for her. That whole summer, my heart ached for her. I stayed up late countless nights practicing, and I woke up early every morning just to trace the notes again, afraid that if I didn’t, I would lose what little of her I still had. I practiced till my fingers went numb.

I was never really good with words, but I knew that if we ever spoke again, I'd invite her to sit down on the sofa and ask her to close her eyes. I would sway her in ways words couldn’t. I knew that she would be able to feel how much I loved her with every key that I pressed, with every note that I played. If I could just get her inside my piano room, she would feel it. I desperately wanted my love to be felt by her; I wanted to be seen by her. To captivate her heart. 

As I played, tears began to fall. We were once again under the same roof, she was in my piano room, listening to the song I had learned for her, the song that always reminded me of her, of us. She was finally watching me play the piano. I refused to let my tears keep me from finishing the piece. 

I poured my whole heart and soul into playing. I let the notes pull us closer, the melodies wrapping us together. For a moment, it felt like the world had stopped. I felt my heart beating faster and faster as the tempo rose. It was my way of saying “I love you. Please see me. Please feel that I love you. Please let me sway you in ways my words haven’t. This is real to me.” 

When I hit the last note, it was the only thing that echoed throughout the room. There was a pause, and then I heard her crying.

I immediately got up from the piano bench and kneeled down in front of her. I asked her what was wrong, and she told me nothing. She said she felt emotional because no one had ever dedicated a piece to her before. No one had ever learned how to play such a beautiful piece for her. This moment had become intimate for us.

I started crying with her. And before I could respond, she told me she loved me, that she felt my love with every note that I played. I wrapped my arms around her and let my head fall into her lap as I cried. 

But it’s all just a bittersweet memory now. 

A memory that comes to mind when I stare at my piano. 

When it’s early enough, I can almost see her sitting on the sofa, watching me play. And if I listen closely, I can still hear the notes.

We are temporarily frozen in time. 

But I always snap out of it before I can hear the final note. 

She and I will never be in the same room again.

My piano sits exactly where it always has, gathering dust.