She pushed open the door. It squealed on its hinges a bit as it made its slow journey inward. She was hit with the smell of clean, wooden floors. They had probably just been mopped. Squeak, squeak, squeak. Her shoes made a rhythmic sound as she walked across the boards. Definitely just mopped. Her glance rose from her squeaking shoes to the unlit fireplace in which a large, wooden swan sat poised. It looked at her, reminding her of the many scoldings it had caused her when she was younger. Shifting her gaze still higher, she caught a glimpse of it.
The piano.
It stole the breath right out of her lungs. So ethereal and majestic, it dominated the room. The studio lights were trained on its glimmering dark beauty. The lid was open--a sight that poured music into the heart, even though the instrument remained soundless. It had always been an object of great mystery to her, ever since she was small, but only just that--an object. But now, purposefully standing here in its formiddable presence, she felt its mystery as if it were a living creature, not just a piece of furniture to hide behind during her childhood games of hide-and-seek.
She felt a chill shimmy over her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. Those studio lights. They were warm.
Hot.
White hot.
She closed and reopened her eyes. The creature was still there. She hadn't moved any closer to it. Why not? Was it fright? Nervousness? Maybe a hint of unworthiness? She shook the feeling, whatever it was, and stepped closer.
Closer.
She could see it clearly now, every flawless detail. It was gorgeous. She sank to the bench that was perched before it. Lifted her hands above the keys. Her tiny fingers suspended hesitantly there for a moment before sliently alighting on the warm, white notes. She looked at her hands, now resting there on the instrument. Chipped nail polish and a white seashell ring interrupted the perfect pattern of the keys underneath her fingers. They looked so out of place there, on the piano.
Slowly, she willed her right index finger to depress the key on which it rested. The sound that emanated from the belly of the beast was beautiful to her. A solid D rang in her ears, blossoming with vibrato as she held it.
That's how it began. There, in her grandmother's house, with the six foot Baldwin. She had an attachment to the instrument ever since that day, knowing that it was what had taught her and molded her into the musician she had become (and was continuing to become even now, eight years later). It had played her more than she had played it. The connection she felt to that piano was electrifying every time she sat down in front of it.
Thinking about it, she decided she probably had more connection to this piano than her own. It's playful personality mystified her. A tempermental thing, really. She'd never played another one like it. Even with all of its random whimsy, it was home. She thought of her own piano--although passionate in mood and familiar in feeling, it would never be as comforting as the Baldwin on Lexington Road.
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