Baby Grand
Tucked away in the far corner of my basement is a peculiar object. Not peculiar at first glance but certainly after a second one. You see, not unlike others of its type it was not made peculiar, well I suppose it was by circumstance, but not of origin. Although admittedly it does make sounds, this object tells a story without those words or sounds.
It was to be the prized possession of the household, second to me of course. It looked out of place and time. A grand centerpiece for the otherwise frugal household. The first of its kind, it was one of the only items ever bought out of want instead of necessity, for those days every penny had to be saved...or so my father said. But I hated it. I felt vulnerable climbing up onto it like a child and exposed to the judgment of all those in the room. It’s presence demanded an attention that I seeked to avoid, but it’s influence upon my life left me in constant unease. The final straw and testament to its grandeur came in the winter of second grade, my first annual piano recital. The teacher had trouble booking a venue at such short notice and my father offered up our living room, empty as it was. It wasn’t much, just under twenty people seated in an assortment of chairs all dressed in semi-formal Christmas clothing. But walking up to it in the middle of the room felt like walking on stage of an opera house to perform a solo. All eyes on me for longest three minutes of my life. My mind raced as I tried to remember what to do next but fortunately muscle memory kicked in and my fingers carried the show. I played for a total of two minutes thirty for seconds, but in those two minutes, my life might as well have flashed before my eyes because I stepped away drained. The rest of the night was a blur of fake laughs and automatic responses, I was too busy looking at it. It was hard not to, and so I decided I finally had to do something about it. The next day, despite my parents outrage, before I got onto to play I took out a chisel like pen and drew. It wasn’t much but it perfectly capture how I felt the day before going up in front of everyone. It was enough to get me a few bruises and grounded for a month but none of it worked. Everyday before I got on to play it, I would sit down next to it and draw. It eventually got moved to my basement where it wouldn’t be such an eye sore, but that just made things worse - for them. I would be found there hours at a time sitting and drawing, etching into the wood my emotions. Captured within the polished wood are the numerous dates, wins, failures, as well as countless rainy days both figurative and literal. Overtime, the drawings stopped becoming those of an eyesore but of art that my father stood over - proud. But he didn’t move it, didn’t even think about it, feeling guilty for things he had done years ago. He sees how it had growing form an unwieldy act of rebellion to an extension of myself. There it will remain, a reminder to my parents that sometimes that which is worth showing off is sometimes worth more kept to ourselves.
And so it stands, my grand piano. Tucked away in a little corner of my basement carefully cradling the stories of my life.
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