“Got busy,” he replied finally. “Other priorities.”
Micah was already tugging at more of the cloth covering. “Can I see the rest of it?Please? I promise I’ll be careful.”
Julian looked at me, then at Micah. “Okay. Let me help you.”
Together, they pulled away the rest of the covering, and I had to catch my breath. The piano was even more stunning fully revealed. Every surface told a story: carved vines wrapping around it, inlaidmother-of-pearl accents catching the afternoon light filtering through the single window in the room, and along the fallboard, an inscription in flowing script:
For my Zay. Let’s keep making music together. Forever yours. Your Niecy.
I gasped. “Your parents,” I said softly.
Julian nodded, running his finger along the inscription.
“Can you play something?” Micah asked, bouncing with excitement.
Julian shook his head. “It’s been a really long time,” he said finally.
“But you’ve kept it,” I observed quietly, because looking closer, I could see the piano was in perfect condition. No dust, no scratches. Tuned. The wood gleamed like it had been recently polished.
“I have someone come by,” Julian admitted. “Every few months.”
“Please can you play? This piano is so cool!” Micah asked again.
Julian looked at me. I gave my head a small shake. I didn’t want to push him. Whatever was happening in that room was happening in him, and it wasn’t mine to open.
He looked back at the piano, then sat down on the bench. His hands hovered over the keys, then he pressed middle C. It rang clean. He pressed it again, then his left hand found a chord and his right hand found the rest, and what came out of that piano was not a man rediscovering an instrument. It was a man whose hands had not forgotten a single thing they knew.
I watched his posture change, his shoulders drop, his breathing deepen. Like watching someone remember who they used to be. His fingers started to move more confidently, and a melody emerged, tentative at first, then more sure of itself.
His hands danced across the keys, coaxing sounds from the piano that seemed to fill not just the room but something hollow in my heart I didn’t know was empty.
The melody built, and I realized I knew the song.
He hadn’t named it, and I don’t even think he actually chose it. His hands just went, but I recognized it by the second bar.
Someday We’ll All Be FreebyDonny Hathaway. The slow open chords of it, the ache built into the architecture of the song.
I didn’t consciously decide to sing at first. It came out of me as a hum, then I found the melody and began to sing the words.
His head came up to look at me. His hands did not stop.
I sang the song low. I knew all of it, the phrasing, the long-heldnotes, the place where the song aches and then lets go. As I continued to sing softly, Julian’s voice finally joined mine. Tentative, then stronger as he found the harmony.
Our voices blended together, his deep rich tone complementing my lighter one, filling the room with a warmth that made Micah sit perfectly still, transfixed. For these few minutes, we were creating something beautiful together.
When the last note faded, the silence that followed felt profound. Sacred.
“That was beautiful,” I whispered, afraid to break the spell.
Julian blinked, like he was coming back from somewhere, and his hands lifted from the keys slowly.
“Whoa,” Micah scrambled to his feet, still buzzing with excitement. “That was so cool! Can you teach me to play like that?”
“Maybe we can find you some lessons,” Julian said without committing to anything.
“Yes!” Micah yelped. “Can I have a snack?” Because he was eight, and eight-year-olds don’t know they’ve just stood in a room while a grown man cracked himself open.
I didn’t answer, still stuck on what had just happened.
