miracle, music

miracle, music

the first time I heard

my grandmother play piano

I was enamoured

by magic;

she let her hands be moved

by elegance

and danced across ivory keys,

so I revelled in the joyous moments

when hidden hammers hit strings,

reverberating,
creating

a miracle,

a melody -

music.

my grandmother's favourite family

of pieces to play was Beethoven's
'Sonata Pathetique'.

just the middle movement, mind -

the younger brother is brash, and

the older, belligerent,

I always found their
blustering melodies
discordant in my heart.

the middle child, however,

is softly spoken in A flat major,

sensitive to her brother's boasting.

she reminds me of myself,

this young girl,

the black sheep of the family, shy,

sheepish at first,

but when her quiet confidence

begins to grow

and glow

she resounds in her warmth.

ah, but her dulcet dreaming shows

a penchant for romanticising the

bittersweet,

and her touch,

cool and electrifying,

leaves hairs prickled on skin.

my grandmother all those years ago
expressed the young girl's sweet
and sorrowful song

so exquisitely.

enamoured,

and five years old, I did not know
how I was able to feel
the fullness of the emotions
of a life

not known,

but her story was so poignant

and so resonant with me,

somehow.

and so, I joined my grandmother
on the piano stool

and there and then

she taught me
the tools of her trade,

moving grace,

passed down from her hands to my own.

my hands now hold

the melodies of many and

muscle memory brings

the young girl out once again -

her song, sweet and sorrowful still

so moving

and moving my hands I

know her more

for I become her

I am her

in those moments I glide over the keys,

there is no separation between

her story and my own.

my fingers dance and her heart sings

and we become one in resounding grace

our embrace

reverberates, ripples

out, and

transforms the world -

for music is the proof of

miracles,

and the craft of the artist

sheds light

on the divine.

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