On the the fourth day of Ethical ELA’s Open Write, Ann Burg invites poets to “Think of a moment in time— an historical moment or a personal one. Place yourself outside yourself — as a favorite tree, a flower, even an inanimate object who has witnessed this moment…”
The Upright Mahogany Howard (c. 1920s)
I grow old I sigh I know you hear my bones creaking as you walk by I have no mirror but your eyes and there I see my beauty is not faded although I’m scarred and snaggle-toothed… you may not realize my proclivity for touch-memory but I tell you that baby on your lap presently pounding my ivories has the feel of her —one day, she will play and I will respond living on and on in the song for the chords never broken vibrate once more stirring the dust of five generations in my bones… I am your reliquary.
The piano was my grandmother’s most-prized possession. My grandfather bought it secondhand sometime during WWII. My grandmother intended to bequeath it to my aunt, who also played; my aunt contracted MS in her 50s and died before my grandmother. Grandma then offered it to me. I do not play, but my youngest son is an extraordinary pianist with a degree in worship music. His brother’s baby, my granddaughter Micah, ten months old, is already showing an affinity for music. She sat on my lap ‘playing’ Grandma’s piano last week, thoroughly enchanted.
with thanks to Katie at #verselove on Ethical ELA yesterday. She inspired poets to look around the room for an object of great personal significance, followed by a brainstorming process for finding the object’s own voice and characteristics: “Now that you have stilled this object in order to distill it in a piece of art, it’s time to bring it to life. Listen to it, and once you are ready, consider: If it were a character…and say something back.”
when the harmonies rang and people sang songs by shape note
now more of a reliquary
with touch-memory of her hands on your beloved keys
they don’t forget
somewhere in that high-backed mahogany cracked prized-possession frame
amid your hammers and strings and octavian dreams
surely you must hold her dust alongside mine skin cells of the child I was
relics of bygone days side by side just as we used to be on your bench, of a summer night in pale lamplight
singing of the sweet by and by when we shall meet on that beautiful shore
in the meantime despite your need for tuning and your wonky key
her great-grandson stirs the slumbering chords again the dust the strings the house the blood in our veins pounding out the glory of the old, old story
blood does not forget
she’d be overjoyed with my boy
as you must surely be
as you whisper to me
in high-backed mahogany cracked corners where silence aches
The piano dates to pre-WWII days, possibly the 1920s. My grandfather bought it secondhand for my grandmother. I spent many hours beside her on the bench as she played and sang alto to my soprano. In her last years she moved in with my aunt and finally the nursing home. She gave the piano to me: “It’s my most-prized possession, you know.” I never learned how to play but my my youngest son grew up loving old gospel songs. He’s a magnificent pianist who graduated from college with a music ministry degree; not a day passes that I don’t think of how elated she’d beto know this.
Years ago, a woman – tired, seven months pregnant – sat in the front row of a church. The morning sun shone through the stained glass windows, casting jewel-tone light on the baby grand piano, a soothing sight to the weary woman whose busy child was churning her insides. The pianist took a seat and began to play the prelude.
The baby stopped moving. He or she didn’t move again until the prelude ended. After the final notes, the child resumed the high activity.
The baby hears the music, thought the mother, marveling. It was the first of many times she would notice the unborn child’s response.
Around age three, the boy frequently hummed a tune to himself. His mother recognized it: “Amazing Grace.” When he was four, the child started playing cassette tapes of gospel music that had belonged to his great-grandfather. After his fifth birthday, his mother stood in the doorway of his bedroom, watching the boy making tally marks with a dry erase marker on a whiteboard easel.
“What are you doing?” she finally asked.
“I’m counting the syllables,” her boy replied, with a serious expression on his little face. He continued his business, listening to the tape, steadily making marks.
It’s the beats, the mother thought. He’s counting the beats.
When he brought home his “All About Me” book on finishing kindergarten, his parents smiled at this page:
“When I grow up, I will be a qiur drekctr (choir director).”
When he was seven, watching him tinker occasionally on his great-grandmother’s upright piano in the living room, his mother said, “You love music so much – why don’t you take piano lessons?”
The boy shrugged, something of a disappointment to his mother, who expected he’d be excited. She took him to lessons anyway.
He wouldn’t practice. The lessons were abandoned before long.
His mother was sad.
In middle school, the boy decided to play alto sax in band. He began tinkering with the piano a little more. Then one day, when he was fourteen, he said, “Hey, Mom, listen to this.” And he played a medley of Christmas songs on the piano – both hands, all the parts – as if he’d been doing so all of his life.
His mother stood marveling, knowing, tears in her eyes.
The boy played the medley on the baby grand piano for the prelude at church on Christmas Day, to the astonishment of the congregation.
He played alto and bari sax for marching band throughout high school; he developed a love for jazz. Few of his friends knew he could play the piano as well. None knew he could sing. One of his teachers did, however. She sought him out when she couldn’t find sheet music for a song she planned to perform at Senior Awards Day.
“This is a version of ‘Perfect’ by Pink – do you think you can play it?” she asked the boy.
“I think so,” replied the boy.
He had two days to prepare.
The result:
One week after graduation, he was hired as the director of music programs at a church, fulfilling his childhood desire of being a choir director.
The rest of the story remains to be written, as it is still unfolding.
I am excited to see where the music takes you throughout your life, Son. Keep learning and reaching.
Much love –
Your infinitely proud mom.
Reflect: Few of us know what we are meant to do so early in life. It’s never too late to find out. What are your dreams, the things that bring you the most fulfillment? Pursue them! What are your gifts? Use them to benefit others. Encourage them to do the same.
lit bits and pieces 