Around a decade ago, I saw my cousin play piano and wanted to play it too. It was a little kid kind of thing, you know, one of those “oh, someone is doing something I can’t do–I want to do that too!”
My parents bought me this old, used piano. A few years later they bought me a completely new piano. It was beautiful. My parents even had the piano tuner come to our house once a year. I could hear a note and automatically know what it was.
Now? I’m just a broken soul, blindly looking around for something. To tell you a secret, I’ve been scared of playing since my younger brother pushed a lamp onto the piano while I was playing because my playing was interfering with his ability to watch a television program. Glass spilled onto onto me, but it cut the piano. Chips of glass and wood flew down onto the cool wooden floor.
Needless to say, I was traumatized.
But before that, when I was still playing, every season we would have a recital. My recital piece was dramatic and bursting with quirky notes. I made no mistakes, and it was almost surreal. I didn’t even feel nervous when going up to play on the stage.
A week later during my weekly piano lesson, my teacher told me that I inspired a girl to play the same piece. I was confused at the time but also flattered. It was a wonderful feeling, being able to help someone find inspiration. I guess I felt a small piece of stardom.
But now, with these piano scars holding me back, I’m no longer that girl who helps others find their way on with the piano, but a small creature left behind in the shadows.