100 Last Year

My grandmother learned to play on her. So did my great aunt. So did my brother, sister, I, and my four children. Bless her heart.

She was born in 1908 in Chicago — at least that’s what the serial number indicates. My parents had it restored for me in 1981, right down to the elegant Bush & Gertz signature logo. The musician/technician disassembled her entirely, replaced internal parts as necessary, and stripped/refinished every piece.

Her first scratch came from one of my cats. That was the same day my indoor cats became outdoor cats. Don’t feel too sorry for them. They lived a bunch more years, and were happier outside than in.

She’s well-preserved for her age, what with the restoration and all. Still, she’s birthed four more piano students since ‘81, no small feat. Her countenance is still polished, her posture erect, her ivories still white and lined up like a perfect set of teeth.

Today she sits with pride in the living room, where anyone driving by our house can enjoy her beauty.

And I missed her birthday. I know she still loves me, but I can’t help but grieve. She reminds me how often I overlook other important things and events in the lives of real people. How often somebody tells me about a deep heart matter on Tuesday, and I see them on Thursday without asking a thing about it.

I pray my piano will forgive me. I pray you will, too — with all my Heart and Soul (I bet you recognize the audio).

Still a Lady