The Reluctant Pianist

By John Grey

--

I am sorry, son for the hours

you spent with Mrs. Campbell,

practicing your scales,

playing the simplest of melodies

over and over and over

until your fingers near bled

and your young back ached like an old man’s.

Three years, you were under her musical thumb –

not just in her presence, but even alone,

tinkering with the keys while her shadow

loomed over your hands and shoulders.

Three years, and still you were as far

from the concert stage, as far from mastering Chopin

as I was from the country of my birth.

But you stuck at it because I stuck at it –

sweating through your progress,

imagining my son a maestro.

All because one day I thought to myself,

if only I’d learned to play piano when I was young,

Forgive me, for mistaking a melody for a future.