The mahogany wood of the upright piano rises in front of me, shining in its darkness. The room is lit by the white light of day pouring through the two windows. I sit next to them on the piano bench, my fingers resting on the white keys. Resting. Relaxed. Hanging from my wrists as deadweight. It seems like it should be quiet. As though at this moment there should only be me in the world, me and the piano. As if everything is hushed, waiting, empty without the sounds contained in that wooden fortress. But it’s not. The noises of five people in one townhouse are everywhere. My mom is in the kitchen making dinner. Ceramic dishes ring with their not quite metallic sound, punctuated by cabinets closing with sharp thuds. My brother’s rap, hip-hop music comes beating through the ceiling. But these are the sounds of life; I don’t notice them. My attention is focused on the silence in the piano, the silence I am about to break.
I begin playing. My fingers stiff and clumsy, then gaining grace as I warm up. Out pour the notes, one on top of the other, pulled out by my playing. The world of silence becomes a world of sound. I control that sound. All my thoughts, all my efforts are engrossed in making that sound what I want to hear. It is all about controlling my playing, and enjoying what I create with it. It is about the music.
