Let There Be Music

It was Hilly's birthday this week, a springy Tuesday in Cincinnati when the sun was shining and magnolia trees were dropping pink blossoms in the wind. These past six months Hilly has been missing the piano. Long, left-brained days at law school have left her hungry for music.

Knowing this, I had been hunting around Craigslist and music stores for a used piano. I finally found an 80-year-old saloon upright at a local store. It was in the back of the shop, dusty and scuffed, a Jesse French & Sons from Newcastle, Indiana. It still carried a tune, and the shop owner offered me a good price on account of its age. I couldn't resist; I bought the piano and arranged for its delivery on Hilly's birthday while she was away at school.

On the morning of her birthday, Hilly considered playing hooky and staying home. I feigned excitement at the idea, but she went to school after all, and the delivery men arrived an hour later--three men to wheel and hoist the piano from the truck to the back door and through the house to its final resting place in the corner of the living room. I waited for Hilly to come home.

She returned at midday. We talked awhile in the kitchen, then walked outside to inspect our small garden. We drank lime slushees in the sun. Hilly was telling me something when we went back into the house. She wandered into the living room and stopped in mid-sentence.

Our windows were open and the sun was shining through and Hilly sat at the piano and played from memory--Bach and Debussy, Pachelbel's Canon and a tarentella by Pieczonka. Inside the instrument, hammers on leather straps struck taut strings and withdrew, an ordered chaos of wire and wood. I sat and watched her play. There was music, sun and love in our house, and job or no job, I was happy.