Notes From Nana

Every day when I was six, then seven, all the way to 10, I made the short walk through the white mop head hydrangea bushes to my Nana's house. It was time to practice. Each day I played. My grandmother sat off to my right, listening, watching, correcting, and nodding. At the time, I did not know that she sang opera before marrying my grandfather, whom, sadly, I never met. All I knew was she was devoted to my music lesson. Half way through there was always a break for an orange. Then back to the scales. How fast her fingers moved. Sometimes I wonder if I made mistakes just to listen to her playing. Her talent and ease at the keyboard was a gift that I opened when I was young, but did not appreciate until today as I sit with my own granddaughter playing the same notes, with the same love, if not with the same talent.