I am reminded of the music. And even though it’s late–too late for nimble fingers or precise execution–I shuffle down the stairs and sit at my piano.
She hasn’t been tuned in years, which is disgraceful, and evidence how precious things can filter to the bottom of the day. Only now do I remember that I really need to call the piano tuner, the C# is hideous, but it’s past midnight, and a little late for that.
I settle in to Mozart’s Fantasia in D minor. It starts, slow, almost angry, rising and building into a cascade of sweet resolution. Then his melody begins, pain and beauty all wrapped in one sweet breath. My heart aches when I play it.
Especially tonight as I stumble over sections with unresponsive fingers.
I move on to another Mozart piece, a Sonata (in F). The third movement is rockin’ fast, and I lean into it and skip along as best I can. It’s a fun movement, but I’m not quite up to it. Which is to say, I’ve yet to get parts of it really down pat, and I’m too sluggish to make any headway in that regard.
So I end with Bach’s First Prelude, which is easy, which is lovely, which is prayer, Bach’s prayer, my prayer–the music fills my house with softness and delight, and I put my hands together to end it, softly, then pad up the stairs to give thanks for the grace of the piano, even when it’s out of tune.