Yes, I remember those chords. The black and white of piano keys jumping up and down beneath dancing fingers. Yes, I remember them. The sleek and slender beauty of an old piano. And the echoes. I remember the echoes. They sounded through the house, and woke me in the mornings, as the sun crept up the bed. I would close my eyes and listen to the melody. There was never a sour note. It was Fur Elise.

Then, a change, into Moonlight Sonata, softer and slower, spinning almost. I could see the notes in my mind. They were great birds, swooping and calling softly to a place deep inside me. The birds nested in my soul.

I would get up slowly and tiptoe into the other room, to watch my mother playing the piano. Her hair fell gently past her shoulders, gentle waves of flame against her clothes. She would feel bad if she knew she’d woken me. She swayed slowly, her eyes shut. Her eyes were always closed. And she played her music on the piano. She smiled a little bit, a shy and secretive smile. These were her private moments in heaven, and mine although she never knew it.

The notes were pure, they were soft and thundering and tender and soothing and harsh. Sometimes they were harsh. At the very beginning, they were harsh, because she’d been crying. It’s hard to play the piano when you’re crying. But as she became enveloped in the music, her crying would stop. She found peace in the music, a deep and lasting peace that would carry her through the day.

The songs always lifted something inside of me. They were so wonderful. They were beautiful, and they made me want to make something beautiful.

I still hear the songs in my mind when I write, paint, or sketch. And the echoes. I can still hear the echoes. They make me want to make something beautiful. I can’t always do it, but I try. The birds are still nesting in my soul, but now they fly for me and my art. Now they fly when I create...and sometimes when I remember.