The piano teacher sits on my bench and tells me to play through the C scale.
I start.
I play the wrong note.
She frowns.
I start again, and do the same.
She says, “Why don't you try a song?” She pulls out sheet music.
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star.”
I begin.
She winces, then removes my hands from the keys.
“Like this,” she says, and plays the notes perfectly.
I try next.
She winces again.
“Your mother said you were good,” she said.
“She said you loved music,”she said.
“She said you wanted to have music lessons to improve further,” she said.
“She wants, not me,” I murmur.
“Try the C scale again,” she says.
I stumble through it.
The teacher sighs in exasperation.
“I'm sorry, but I can't teach someone like you, with no ear for music.”
She leaves.
I sigh in relief.
And then.
And then, only.
And then only do I take out the sheet music.
The music with my name at the top.
I play.
I play perfectly.
I play my songs, the ones that make me laugh.
Cry.
Dance.
Dream.
The ones that transport you to distant places.
The ones that tell you what life is and means.
The ones I wrote myself.
I look at the bench beside me.
The piano teacher left her purse.
I hear the door open.
Back to the C scale.