But imagine

When I was little, Amanda taught me how to play the piano. Every Monday, we sat side by side, reciting the few songs that I knew: Turkey in the Straw, Auld Lang Syne, and Au Clair De La Lune.

I remember taking walks with her to the candy store. She’d reach for the bubble gum on the top row and the sour gummies in the middle — the gum was for her and the gummies were for me. She didn’t need to ask, she knew they were my favourite.

During the winter months we made fewer walks to the candy store. We’d spend those minutes sitting side by side on the piano bench, talking instead. She’d ask me about school, about my friends, and gradually we’d shift our attention to the piano.

Just a few small things, she’d say as she softly adjusted my hunch, my limp fingers and toppled wrist, and then imagine the music as you’re playing.

When the weather got warmer, mom came inside with me instead of dropping me off at the curb. I was getting ready for our lesson, fidgeting with the zipper on my tie-dye book bag when I overheard something about not being able to teach anymore. I looked up from the piano bench and there was mom and Amanda. Mom’s face was somber and Amanda’s back was hunched over, as if she was carrying an invisible weight. At a distance, I heard this: husband and cancer.

Piano lessons turned into a blur. A teacher replaced Amanda but he was nothing like her, he didn’t take me to the candy store and made a fuss about learning to read music. It didn’t take long for mom to question if piano was right for me, and then I quit the lessons altogether.

Thirty years later, here I am fumbling my way through a song for my child. She’s two and fascinated by anything that makes a sound. It’s been years since I’ve touched a piano. So I take my time imagining the music, replaying nursery rhymes in my head while I feel my way around.

I’m playing terribly. But the keys feel familiar.

And delicate.

And distant.

They remind me of Amanda.

When I last saw her she was a young mom with two little girls. She used to say that I reminded her of her daughters. I wonder now, if she could see me here with my little one, would I remind her of herself?

Sitting at the piano, I try to imagine what it was like.

I imagine the hope in the early days as she watched her husband twirl away with the girls, giggling; and after the cancer metastasized, how she curled up in bed next to him, bereft of feeling.

I imagine her struggle with unpaid bills, hating his life insurance payout, and then hating herself for needing the money to live.

I imagine trying to keep up with their daily routines, desperately rushing the girls out the door to catch the bus — unwilling to be left behind in more ways than one.

And I imagine the silence. Because hearts break quietly, don’t they?

My little one wobbles over and lifts her squishy foot, trying to get beside me on the bench. I pull her up and we sit side by side. Her fingers float across the keys, not quite pressing them down.

We sit like this for a while, her little body leaning on mine, swaying gently as her fingers prance in silence.

Side by side. There’s no sound. But we imagine.