Accordion

Sitting on the floor and looking up at him was like looking at a superhero.
He was big, and tall.
His bib-overalls, covered in sawdust (though he’d try to brush it off before coming inside).
And his railroad man cap that covered his white hair and his bald spot.
He might not sound like a super hero to you, but to me, he was larger than life.
And his superpower?
“I’ll play, you sing” he’d say to me, and with that, he’d pull it out from beside his hideous, orange recliner.
It wasn’t fancy.
It wasn’t shiny.
It wasn’t new.
His arthritis filled fingers would caress it gently as he popped open one slowly rusting latch, and then another.
He’d slide his fingers down to the keys, and he’d start out slow, trying to remember which keys come next, tripping over the notes at first.
But then, life, and ‘You Are My Sunshine’ would fill the small house that he had called home for more than 50 years.
Great Grandma would smile (that was her’s and Great Grandpa’s song, after all), and I would sing, even if it wasn’t the right words.
Next would be ‘Amazing Grace’, and I sang along to that with ease.
His arms would bow in and out, and the instrument would stretch, then shrink.
In a matter of seconds, his overworked hands became that of a child again, and he would tap his feet and chuckle as he watched me dance around and sing made up lyrics that were usually off tune and out of beat.
And that old accordion.
It would play as if it had just been taken off a shelf for the very first time, knowing its purpose, and playing its part to the best of its ability.

But, good things don’t last forever.
It wasn’t his hands that became too crippled to play.
It wasn’t the accordion that slowed and tore.
And it wasn’t the songs that became too difficult.
It was his mind.
It slipped, slowly at first, but picking up pace with time.
“Grandpa, play the accordion” I would say excitedly.
But he would try, and get upset.
He just… he couldn’t remember how.
Great Grandma would tell me every time I arrived for a visit, “Remember, he can’t play anymore."
But I still sang, and it would make his forgetful heart smile, and bring him back to the present just long enough for me to see the old him that I loved with all my heart.

Walking the halls of a nursing home, a teenager, clinging to the memory of an old accordion that had sat in the house that he could no longer remember for the past three years.
It was a dust collector, and he was about the same.
He laid there.
He didn’t talk.
He hardly opened his eyes.
He could barely eat.
“It’s me Great Grandpa. It’s Kyla.”
My heart dropped, cuz for the first time ever, he didn’t remember me.
He didn’t remember that little girl that begged him to let her into his woodworking shop to watch him carve toys.
The little girl who sat on his lap and told him stories of make believe gibberish.
The little girl that would hold his hand as she helped him feed chickens.
The little girl that always asked him, “Do you like my dress?”, and he would reply, “It’s beautiful.”
But most of all, the little girl who would dance, and sing, as he pressed down on the time warped keys, and poured out the songs of his life on that old accordion.

The last time I heard ‘You Are My Sunshine’ was at his funeral.
It wasn’t the same though.
It wasn’t him playing it on the accordion, after all.
But I still sang.
I sang ‘Amazing Grace’, and I know it made him smile.

I don’t know where his accordion is.
It’s probably sitting somewhere, collecting dust.
But I know he isn’t.
He’s watching over me, replaying memories that he long forgot.
And he grabs the box from beside my Savior’s throne, caresses it as he pops open the latches, and he plays it without forgetting a single note.