The Pianist Played

One evening I was sitting on the porch of a friend’s home.

I don’t remember why I was out there alone.  But I remember the evening.  I was sitting on the porch swing.  The house was on my left, the street was on my right.  The house was brick.  There was a ceiling fan swirling.  It always swirled, they never turned it off.

I gently drifted back and forth.

The lights were on in the house.  Glowing yellow from the family room, through the darkened front room no one sat in.

Quiet family noises were coming from within.

Then, he started to play.

Her brother was a pianist.

And I drifted back and forth.  Softly.  While music I didn’t know, floated out into the night, surrounding me.

I didn’t recognize one single piece he played.  Because I knew nothing about music.

But I felt music.

And, for that short time that I was out there alone, and the pianist played….

No one heard it like I heard it, or felt it, or absorbed it like I did.

I allowed myself to own that music.  On that porch.  In the dark.  I owned it.

I claim it still, today.

That night, when the pianist played, it created in me a memory.

And that, makes it mine.