06/08/2025
"The Silence Between the Notes"
The smell of old books and dust wafted through the attic, transporting me back to summers spent playing the piano under Grandma's watchful eye. The worn keys, yellowed like her favorite ivory brooch, seemed to whisper secrets only we shared. I ran my fingers over the intricate carvings on the piano's lid, the ones Grandma said her father had made for her.
As I sat down to play, the creaky stool groaned beneath me. Grandma's favorite Chopin nocturne flowed from my fingertips, the notes dancing like fireflies on a summer evening. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes as I remembered her gentle corrections, her patience, and her unwavering support.
But it was the silences between the notes that hurt the most – the way she'd pause, her eyes sparkling, and say, "Feel the music, dear." Those moments were etched in my memory like the fine lines on her face, a topography of love and loss.
I played on, the music a cathartic release of grief and nostalgia. The attic grew darker, the shadows deepening like the ache in my chest. I felt her presence around me, the way she'd sit beside me, her hand guiding mine over the keys.
As the final notes faded, I rested my forehead on the piano's cool surface. The silence that followed was almost palpable, a reminder that some silences can never be filled. I whispered, "I miss you, Grandma," and the words seemed to echo off the attic's rafters, a sorrowful refrain that only the piano understood.
In that moment, the music became a bridge between past and present, a testament to the love we shared, and the ache of losing her. The piano, once a source of joy, had become a bittersweet reminder of what I'd lost, and what I'd never forget.
