Magic
I sit at the piano, and I feel the quiet around me, the silence filled with just that sound of keyboard, mouse clicks, and yes, me adjusting the piano bench. It's really quiet, so quiet, in fact, I can almost imagine myself hearing the crickets outside, the wind blowing, the footsteps from next door.
But when I place my hands on the keys, I feel a warmth rising in my body, and I look at the music, just plain black, white, dots, lines, and curves--to form one whole.
Music.
Of course, I'm not the sort of person to be able to play with music, throw it in the air, give it a little spin, sprinkle it around and take it all back in like one magic trick after another. I'm the sort of person who can't do that, but enjoy trying to.
And as I'm playing, I hear footsteps. It's not the imaginary next-door-neighbor footsteps. It's the real behind-me-watching-me-play footsteps.
So I pause, just for a split second, and continue.
When I finish, I look behind me, and there he is.
My Dad.
Ever since I said that I would Never, ever come home late after work ever in my life when I grow up, he has been coming home at ten o clock, at least. Maybe around 6 or 7 or 8, usually.
When in fact, he had been coming home at maybe around twelve or one in the morning before. It was a wonderful improvement on him being a father--a great one, in fact, proving that he was actually trying. And I appreciated it, I acknowledged it. I'd hear him wake up at four o clock in the morning, hear the front door swing open, creak shut, and imagine hearing the screeching tires and the engine roaring outside.
Before, I would always see him sleeping. That was what my father was--a sleeping figure under a blanket. In the morning, I'd see him as that figure. In the night, he would be in New York, working late, trying to keep our whole house on his back, without toppling, falling, or tripping. It's a hard task, I know. But sometimes, I wonder if every kid lives this life, worrying about their father, and seeing only his sleeping figure (besides the weekends, when it's the watching-TV-figure).
My father. A smart, intelligent, kind, sensitive, (maybe sometimes a bit arrogant) father. Who doesn't know what we think every day of him, of him going to work after we leave for school, coming home after we are long gone into dreamland.
On the weekends, we would watch TV. Why? That's what Dad likes--TV. And he would, furthermore, rant and give a diatribe that yes, we must do some sort of sport, because yes, we are short, and yes, we need to grow until we reach That Age Of Time when we cannot wish to grow any longer (taller, rather).
Unless, of course, he decides to go to the park. Which is very rare, yet exciting. A trip out of our house--all together as a family!
Usually it is just me, my brother, and my mother, as my mom struggles to turn on the GPS (No, Mom, the "G" is over there), type in the location, and follow it to the "Turn Right. In two hundred feet. Recalculating. Turn left. Recalculating. Reaching your destination. On left." Or maybe get lost in the road late at night, and stare wide eyed at the GPS recalculating things every other second.
So it is natural that I worry about my father, even after we realized he was 'diagnosed' with ____. And when I first heard that, I was terrified, worried, absolutely speechless to think that now my father was someone who needed extra care--more than before, at least.
And the older I grew, the more I became aware of family situations, The Bill, money, and most of all, my dad's work. I would see him typing away at his computer, sometimes late at night when I crawl downstairs to get the essay out of the printer, his headphones on, talking to one of his workers as he did some of his complicated, logical, technological work.
So, naturally, I began to understand what my parents were arguing about, and why my father was frowning all the time.
Yes, he frowned (and still is frowning) all the time.
I noticed this not too long ago, when I began to realize why he always looked so worried.
His forehead is always crinkled into that symmetric frown that was so familiar every day I would see him, and his eyes either squinted in a glare, maybe a slight twinkle, or that bored, I-am-doing-work face. But always that frown.
And if I ever ask him why he is frowning, his frown would deepen, and he would mutter, "No, what frown" and then reduce back to his normal frown.
So when he came upstairs from his little den of computers, papers, files, and wires (the basement), it was usually because of piano.
Whenever I play the piano, I would hear that creaking. After a while, I began anticipating that creaking from downstairs, that click of the doorknob, the swing of the door, and the footsteps and the wood creaking under his feet. And if I didn't hear it, I would put all the more effort into the piece, almost telling him to come. Because when he did come at that time, when I play piano, he would, as he does now, and sit behind me, on the couch.
Yes, in our piano corner, we have a couch, mainly because we have nowhere to put it, and it looks nice, and that you can sit and give pressure and stare down the person who is currently practicing piano.
But when my dad comes upstairs, I like it, because he never hears us play. Until recently, when he began coming home late. And I think I have explained that already, so no more need to say.
Today, it is different, because he looks so tired, dragging his feet on the floor almost, and hovering over my shoulder for a minute or two, looking at the dizzying music--white and black dots and lines!?!?--and then collapsing into the chair. Laying down on the long couch, and I would almost feel him behind me, even as we are many feet apart.
So I turn, pivot, actually, to face him, him lying down on the couch, foot at one end, head at the other, in that normal frown, and I would say, What would you like for me to play?
Because I feel nice today. (Hey that rhymes.)
So he laughs. That laugh, like the hah-you-really-just-said-that sort of laugh. So I wonder if I should really play for him, because it lessened my will to play for him. It's rare that I suggest such things, you should know.
But he begins to sing a song that I know, and I flip through the thick binder of for-fun played (self-learned) pieces, and being playing that song, pausing before starting, saying It's an Automatic IPod, where if You Sing the beginning of a Song You want Me to Play, then I Play it Automatically. And he laughs, which cues my start to play.
When I finish, I look back, and his frown is just a tad bit less.
So I play another piece, and it's a piece I didn't learn all yet, so I stop in the middle and shout out THE END, in embarrassment (why do I feel embarrassment in front of my own father, I don't know), and look back.
My dad looks at me and says in a creaky voice that I just Woke Up, haha...
So I turn back and begin playing another piece.
And another piece, and in the middle of that another piece, I hear snoring. So when I finish that another piece, I look back.
There is my father, feet at one end, head at the other, with a face with no symmetrical folds of skin, just him, and his relaxed face.
And for some reason, I feel pity, understanding, and sorrow, and wonder. Is this the face of my father when there is nothing heavy on his mind, just light happiness? Relaxed-ness? Is this the true face of my father? I feel sorrow, realizing that this face is less familiar than the frown that I see so often.
I play another piece, thinking that if I keep playing peaceful pieces, then he will remain peaceful, his mind will be peaceful for at least, these few minutes. No frown, no stress, no The Bill, no work. Just sleep, and music. And my heart fills up as I play one piece after another, pausing at each end just to look at my father snore, yet have that relaxed face.
I turn off the bathroom lights as I tiptoe to my piano (for whatever reason there is), and search for another piece to play, when my dad wakes up. I hear him groan and hear the sofa springs creak as he sits up, stands up, and goes back downstairs without a word, that frown on his face again.
It's just that slight frown, that normal frown that makes me so sad.
And I think, that was a moment of magic, when the world lined up obediently, and sat and waited for my dad, that one moment when I played music for him, instead of him having to line up obediently and hurry along with the world.
