my fingers are stiffer now
they dance over old notes
covered by a thin sheen of dust
white keys now a muted ivory
glossy pedals more scuffed than shiny
how many hours did i spend on this stool?
no playdates until you master clair de lune
no tv until you memorize this mazurka
play it five times
no mistakes
or you start over
every week, the dreaded "did she practice?"
your staccatos aren't crisp enough
your chords aren't loud enough, use your shoulders!
then silence on the car ride home
better, i suppose, than the yelling
i hate this piece
i hate chopin
i hate mozart
but the music is beautiful
and the pain is always worth the beauty
now when i open my old books
they don't make me want to scream anymore,
just relearn each measure
and remind myself how much i miss their melodies
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