Five year old Nora is sitting at the piano.
Her Grandpa – my husband’s father – slowly makes his way down the stairs.
One careful step at a time, mindful foot after mindful foot,
he arrives in the sprawling basement.
Nora sits at the piano and presses,
Plink. Plink. Plunk.
A classically trained pianist many moons ago, Grandpa stands beside her, one gnarled hand steadies him on the wall.
His walker waits at the top of the stairs.
“She’s got a soft touch, doesn’t she?” Grandma says from her perch across the room.
And more to himself than in reply, Grandpa muses with his eyes upon this little girl,
“She can hear what she’s playing.”
A silent echo bolds the air.
That echo hangs in the moment.
This freeze frame swallows the entire universe in it’s Truth.
She hears what she is playing.
His words. Those words.
They are the magic of a life.
When we can hear what we are saying.
When we can feel what we are playing.
When we can see what we are doing.
This music is sublime.
Shhh… quiet now.