Notes

I was never a good sleeper. Never. My mother said she thought it was because I spent so much time in the NICU after my birth, waking at odd hours to be poked, prodded, and monitored. Well into my young years I'd cat nap during the day and keep my parents up at night. It suited my system.

Because of my genetic joint disorder, I was in physical therapy from a very young age. I had a small trampoline for this, and even when the therapist had left our house, my youthful energy came to bear on the springs, my parents straining to hear Dallas or Matlock above my jumping. Many nights, I would actually jump myself to sleep. Fearing that they'd never get me back down, often my parents would just  throw a blanket over me and leave me on the tiny trampoline for the night.

What I remember from those nights is waking and feeling a bit uneasy at first. I was slumbering on Jazzercise equipment, afterall. But as soon as my eyes adjusted and I understood that the cool, sleek bed on which I rested was my beloved trampoline, my rigid body went lax, and I stared up into the soft light from the lamp atop my mother's piano. I can visual the bottom metal base, under which we hid "emergency money," and I can see the little brass key that turned the thing on. I can see our living room alight, subtly, the spotlight shining though, of course, on the piano. It wasn't a fancy piano, but it was hers. And it was always part of what made houses into homes.

For years, I remember thinking that I had never felt at home the way I had felt in that living room under the glow of that lone light. My first apartment after moving out on my own, I chased it. And each home after it. I think I am getting close. Closer than I ever have been, anyway. But then I wonder if we ever find it again, or if we just create a new one for our children. One that we can never truly have, but just create for another person. Another light for another lifetime of chasing a light.

I wonder if I'll get her piano again one day. It still sits in her husband's house, unplayed, collecting dust,  the music in it silenced for over a year now. I emailed him a list of the larger items I wanted, eventually. What I didn't want was for him to feel as if I was going shopping in his home. What I was really saying was, "If not for you, these things would be mine now, but when you die, this is what I want. Because they were always mine and never yours."

I don't have a photo of the actual piano. But I can recall the gold letters spelling out the brand, and I typed that into Google. This was literally the first photo returned in the search. As I said, not a special piano. But few things bring back such special memories. Few photos could bring back such vivid sounds and smells. The leather of the bench. The creak as the bench opened, storing the notes that scored my childhood.