Out of Tune

There it sits in my half-wall-paper stripped dining room collecting dust and clutter, unused, out of tune, and now out of style--a roadblock between moving forward and being stuck in the limbo of the past. My grandmother's piano represents more to me than it should, I know, and for the first time in my life I want to destroy her.

Most of us I imagine know what it feels like to be out of place, out of the ordinary, uncomfortable in your surroundings,  lonely in a crowded room.  Some of us have been neglected and overlooked.  Lack of maintenance hurts the animate and inanimate alike. The wounds leave scars, deep, and coarse that can stifle our voice, weakening our ability to sing the music of our souls.

At the age of five, I fell in love with my grandmother's piano.  Waiting three years to take lessons, I studied my mother's hands moving on the keys, learned to memorize the simple tune of "Mary Had a Little Lamb," and studied "Heart and Soul" from my grandmother.  I had just recently given up the dream of being a famous singer and began to sink my hopes into her beautiful keys.  Three years later, a harsh piano teacher couldn't even corrupt my affection.  Although I again dreamed of becoming a famous pianist, the fame was only secondary to the playing, for the playing soothed my solitude.

Sadly, circumstances took her from me a few years later, leaving a hole my clarinet nor any other instrument could not fill.  To play the clarinet was an uphill struggle full of demerits and disappointments--band instructors glaring down with disapproving eyes, peers giggling at failures while competitors vied for higher seats.

So I gave up music altogether.  It was too painful. Silently crying for her, I imagined her sitting abandoned at my grandmother's house.  Years later we were reunited, but lack of use and care had broken down her keys, and those remaining sang woefully out of tune.  I wanted to play her again, but her damaged voice broke my heart.  I was just a teenager, faced with the cost of repairing the relationship, so I walked away.

Adulthood and parenting turned my heart to her again.  Living in a small apartment with no room for her, I vowed to get her back and make her new again.

Four years ago, we moved into this house. I brought her here, but I have failed her again.  I stare at her sitting neglected in my dining room taking up precious space that I need to put a buffet table, faced with the sad reality that she will never fit in here.  Letting her go is almost unbearable, and yet keeping her here is suffocating.