The Piano Man
It was a Steinway baby grand. But it didn't get much play. Mostly it just sat there, at least once my sister stopped taking lessons. But that didn't make it any less important to the memories of my childhood.
For it was here that my dad occasionally wandered. And while I am sure he was not the most accomplished musician, to my ear he never missed a note. He could, so I imagined, do anything he set his mind to. He had been the best in academics, best in athletics, best in his professional life. So why would I think he would be anything less as a piano man.
And it was here that we teamed up to perform a medley of our greatest hits: "I Left My Heart In San Francisco", "Strangers in the Night", "Love and Marriage" and countless others (ok, maybe not countless, but at least a couple). So what if my singing (as my wife, my son and my granddaughter all now often remind me) was not quite up to the standard of the man tickling the ivory. The quality of the moment was the only measure of what was happening.
My dad died in 1979. The following year the house was sold, but the piano, the sheet music and the memories it invoked traveled with my mom and remained in her company for the rest of her life. While the keys lay motionless for almost four decades, they forever spoke volumes.
Today would have been my dad's birthday. I still can picture the two of us at that piano, he sitting there with a slight grin on his face and joy in his heart, me, over his left shoulder, looking at the sheet music. Happy in the knowledge that though we might not be the best team, we were definitely the perfect one.