A Memory

When I was young, we had a baby grand piano in our front room. My father had a small repertoire of songs he could play: the Irish Reel, On Top of the World, and a handful of Christmas Carols. There were a few more that I’m sure he made up. One in particular stands out. It was a succession of chords similar to Heart and Souls, where my father would start humming along softly, and soon he would be in a roar of yodeling and bellowing. There were no words, but none were needed. It filled the house with joy.

One evening, when I was seven, my dad sat down to play the piano. I curled up on the upholstered chair nearby to listen. He was playing a sweet little melody I hadn’t heard before. “This is the story of your grandfather, Blaine,” he said. He continued to play, and after a while, he hit a sour sounding note. I thought he had made a mistake, but then he hit another, and another. The melody became increasingly scrambled with sharps and flats thrown in haphazardly. The cacophony continued for some time, making me a little uncomfortable, and then it abruptly ended. My father looked at the keys for a moment, and then continued with the original, peaceful melody, only this time a little quieter.

He didn’t need to explain what this meant. Even at seven I understood.

A few months later, my father knelt down in front of me, put his hands on my shoulders, and told me Grandpa had passed away. For as sad as I wanted to be, I kept hearing those sweet sounding notes that followed the discordant ones. I knew my grandfather was no longer wrestling with Alzheimer’s. His melody was now the way it was supposed to be.

I’ve often thought of this simple yet powerful lesson my father taught me about mortality. In the funerals I’ve attended over the years, no speeches, eulogies or remembrances have been as true as the notes my father played for me that evening on our piano.