There was a day, long ago, a day I miss deeply now–
when there was some kind of music coming from several different corners in our house, at the same time. Over the years we’ve had a couple of flutes, a clarinet, a French horn, a couple of violins, and always, always there seems to have been a child sitting at the piano. I know that my memory is very selective about this, but I’m fine with recalling our family’s musical years as a lovely melodic blur.
Of course with all those instruments there also came lessons and practicing–oh the practicing that went on…and the treats we bribed the young musicians with. All for the promise of another version of “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” to be played for me.
And how they played.
I was asked often how I could stand so much beginner noise in all it’s difficult phases and it surprised them to hear that I loved it…all of it. Though I never played anything myself, really, the instruments fascinated me–and so did the ability to pull a sweet sound from so many different places. As a mother–it’s always incredible to hear your own child create something beautiful–
that you did not teach them.
After all these years, most of the music is quiet now. The once avid players each found different places to spend their creative energies–jobs, missions, marriage, housework, church work and babies. That’ll certainly do it.
But–how I miss the music.
I’m waiting for the day when one of the new children–my musicians children–will come running in with a familiar shaped case and say, “Grammy–wanna hear me play?”
I know just what I’ll do…
I’ll smile and nod and get comfortable in a soft, easy chair. I’ll close my eyes.
and listen to the dear, sweet, scratchy sound of each note.
“Twink-le, twink-le lit-tle star, how I won-der what you are…”
I just hope I don’t start to cry.
Indeed…I can hardly wait to say, “Oh, please, please…
…play for me.
