What I Wouldn't Give to Be Whole
Making Music
After a long day at the pandemonic playground they called school, Samuel and I went home.
"Man, I'm starving," Samuel said. "You want anything, Artie?"
"No," I replied. All day, my stomach had been turning, and I imagined it would be a while before it settled down. For now, though, the idea of food made me queasy.
"Suit yourself," said Samuel, and I left the room, hearing from behind me the sounds of cupboard doors opening and things being fished out.
I walked from the kitchen into the living room with ease. The nice thing about home was that I knew it like the back of my hand. Most people could maneuver around their homes blindfolded if they had been living there long enough, but they undoubtedly would look clumsy and awkward doing it. The way I knew my way around the house was based mostly on my kinesthetic sense. The kinesthetic sense was the reason people knew the backs of their hands so well; they could clap their hands together in the dark without giving the matter a second thought because they had gotten used to where all their limbs were. For me, that sense extended to my home. In a way, it was a part of my own body, closer to me than others' homes were to them. Perhaps that closeness, the connections I formed with things that others lacked because in them it was replaced by vision, was part of why I loved it here so much.
I approached the grand piano that belonged to my late mother, sat down in the chair, and pushed back the top. A smile playing across my lips, I ran my fingers over the ivory. I loved that feeling. It was an inexplicable sensation that nothing could beat.
I hit middle C and held it for a few seconds, relishing the simple sound, then began to play the second movement of Bach's Brandenburg Concerto from memory. It was one of my favorite pieces; I knew all the movements by heart. If the bigots of the world knew how many songs I had memorized on the piano, I thought amusedly, they'd think I was some kind of idiot savant. But, I supposed, that was better than simply being an idiot.
I owed all my musical talents to my mother. I wasn't even three when she had first hoisted me up onto her lap and familiarized me with the instrument. She would hold my tiny hands and press them softly into the keys to the tune of "Mary Had a Little Lamb" or "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star". "You're playing, Artie!" she would say to me. "You're playing the piano! You're making music!" I had been delighted at her last sentence. Making music. Until then, I had never made anything besides a mess, and that I was scolded for. This, I was praised for. I had loved my mother's praise. From then on, whenever I had wanted her attention, I would climb the piano chair (with much difficulty) and begin to clumsily press keys. Within seconds, no matter what she had been busy with, she would come in from the other room and play with me. One time she had been building things out of Lincoln Logs with Samuel, heard my dissonant song, and came to my aid. Samuel had been so mad that he had taken off his dirty diaper and left it in my bed.
When I was young, I thought that was exactly the kind of thing that justified my mother's favoritism of me over Samuel—I made music, he made messes. I was the blind one, not him. I was the special one. I deserved all the attention. At seventeen, I realize that nothing justifies a mother who loves one of her children more than other, no matter what the circumstances.
Still, I missed my mother. For a couple of months after her death, it had been extremely painful to play the piano without the warmth of her arm around my waist. I would get into a piece by Mozart, showing no sign of depression until I suddenly burst into tears. Now I felt but a dull sting, which was overpowered totally by the beauty of the music I played.
The last note of Brandenburg still ringing pleasantly in my ears, I began to notice a smoky smell in the air. I yelled for Samuel and, moments later, heard his footsteps coming quickly down the stairs.
"What?" he asked. Then he paused, and I heard him say, "Is something burning?" before running off into the kitchen. There was nearly a second of silence, then I heard Samuel scream, very loudly, "Fuck!"
Swiftly, I stood up to help Samuel to put out the fire in the kitchen. I took one step and froze. At that moment, I felt like laughing at myself. What could I do about a fire? All the help I could likely offer is to stand in the way of Samuel while he extinguished the flames himself.
The house is on fire, I thought. The house is on fire, and I'm blind.
I turned in the opposite direction and sneaked out the back door.
"Man, I'm starving," Samuel said. "You want anything, Artie?"
"No," I replied. All day, my stomach had been turning, and I imagined it would be a while before it settled down. For now, though, the idea of food made me queasy.
"Suit yourself," said Samuel, and I left the room, hearing from behind me the sounds of cupboard doors opening and things being fished out.
I walked from the kitchen into the living room with ease. The nice thing about home was that I knew it like the back of my hand. Most people could maneuver around their homes blindfolded if they had been living there long enough, but they undoubtedly would look clumsy and awkward doing it. The way I knew my way around the house was based mostly on my kinesthetic sense. The kinesthetic sense was the reason people knew the backs of their hands so well; they could clap their hands together in the dark without giving the matter a second thought because they had gotten used to where all their limbs were. For me, that sense extended to my home. In a way, it was a part of my own body, closer to me than others' homes were to them. Perhaps that closeness, the connections I formed with things that others lacked because in them it was replaced by vision, was part of why I loved it here so much.
I approached the grand piano that belonged to my late mother, sat down in the chair, and pushed back the top. A smile playing across my lips, I ran my fingers over the ivory. I loved that feeling. It was an inexplicable sensation that nothing could beat.
I hit middle C and held it for a few seconds, relishing the simple sound, then began to play the second movement of Bach's Brandenburg Concerto from memory. It was one of my favorite pieces; I knew all the movements by heart. If the bigots of the world knew how many songs I had memorized on the piano, I thought amusedly, they'd think I was some kind of idiot savant. But, I supposed, that was better than simply being an idiot.
I owed all my musical talents to my mother. I wasn't even three when she had first hoisted me up onto her lap and familiarized me with the instrument. She would hold my tiny hands and press them softly into the keys to the tune of "Mary Had a Little Lamb" or "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star". "You're playing, Artie!" she would say to me. "You're playing the piano! You're making music!" I had been delighted at her last sentence. Making music. Until then, I had never made anything besides a mess, and that I was scolded for. This, I was praised for. I had loved my mother's praise. From then on, whenever I had wanted her attention, I would climb the piano chair (with much difficulty) and begin to clumsily press keys. Within seconds, no matter what she had been busy with, she would come in from the other room and play with me. One time she had been building things out of Lincoln Logs with Samuel, heard my dissonant song, and came to my aid. Samuel had been so mad that he had taken off his dirty diaper and left it in my bed.
When I was young, I thought that was exactly the kind of thing that justified my mother's favoritism of me over Samuel—I made music, he made messes. I was the blind one, not him. I was the special one. I deserved all the attention. At seventeen, I realize that nothing justifies a mother who loves one of her children more than other, no matter what the circumstances.
Still, I missed my mother. For a couple of months after her death, it had been extremely painful to play the piano without the warmth of her arm around my waist. I would get into a piece by Mozart, showing no sign of depression until I suddenly burst into tears. Now I felt but a dull sting, which was overpowered totally by the beauty of the music I played.
The last note of Brandenburg still ringing pleasantly in my ears, I began to notice a smoky smell in the air. I yelled for Samuel and, moments later, heard his footsteps coming quickly down the stairs.
"What?" he asked. Then he paused, and I heard him say, "Is something burning?" before running off into the kitchen. There was nearly a second of silence, then I heard Samuel scream, very loudly, "Fuck!"
Swiftly, I stood up to help Samuel to put out the fire in the kitchen. I took one step and froze. At that moment, I felt like laughing at myself. What could I do about a fire? All the help I could likely offer is to stand in the way of Samuel while he extinguished the flames himself.
The house is on fire, I thought. The house is on fire, and I'm blind.
I turned in the opposite direction and sneaked out the back door.