8:28 p.m. - Friday, Oct. 19, 2012
Story #18
It's easier to leave the guitar at school. Which is a decision I regret every single Friday night when the tension of the week starts to melt away and all I want to do to integrate the release is to play. I have no piano because of the horrible decision to leave my beloved state of Pennsylvania and relocate to a second-floor apartment in New Jersey . . .I donate my keyboard to my classroom during the school year, and I leave the guitar at school so as not to forget it on Monday mornings. This series of bad decisions leaves me desperate on the weekends. Desperate. I don't know how to describe the sensation . . .but I imagine it would be like a chain-smoker running out of cigarettes with no way of getting more. It makes me want to scoop out my eyeballs with a spoon.
So . . .
I unlatched the golden clasps and threw back the lid of the musty-smelling red leather carrying case. With two hands, I lifted the wooden box by its brass handles. I removed the lid and unhinged the bellows. Pumped it a few times. Noticed some sticky keys. Tried to pull them up and avoid playing them. I don't have a very large harmonium repertoire. In fact, I have exactly zero songs I know how to play on the harmonium. But desperate times call for desperate measures. I played an arrangement of a 16th-century Moravian hymn. I played Alanis' "Heart of the House" . . .then I tried to figure out one of my favorite modern Kirtan tunes. It only took a few guesses to determine that it was just two chords . . .C major, f minor. And once I figured it out . . .I let the air flow through the reeds, and vibrate through the floorboards . . .and I sang my heart out.
It was nice, but not nearly as good as a guitar, which is not nearly as good as a piano.
We were visiting to take a Haunted Tour by candlelight. My heart flooded with memory and love as we walked up the cobblestone path, a brisk wind on our cheeks. "Let's see if it's open," he said. "No way," I said. "I'm sure it's locked." He pulled on the door . . .and it was open. But there was no way we could get to the pianos. They keep them under combination lock-and-key, which they change every year. I would have asked someone to let us in, but the place was desolate. I used to be the only soul in this building on Friday nights. College kids don't hang around to practice on the weekends unless it's Jury Season. He tried, but to no avail. Still. I pressed my hand against the wooden door . . .and I felt the truth. I felt the truth.
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