Rusty fingers

I started playing the piano when I was 6 years old. At first, I was never interested of the idea of playing the piano. I loved the fact that it sounds undeniably beautiful to listen to but I had 0% interest. I was just fulfilling my parents’ wish to let us learn piano. I remember the days when I have piano lessons every Saturday morning and still think of the times when I feel so lazy that I don’t study and read the notes but memorize how my teacher played the piece (Yes. I was a clever 6 year old.) or I always try to pretend that I’m sick or having deep sleep when she arrives. My piano teacher was kind enough to just leave and tell my mom she’d visit again next Saturday.

That one night, I woke up from a long afternoon snooze after hearing the most beautifully played piece. Out of curiosity, I went out of my room to follow where the sound came from. Slowly, the mechanical feel of the piano fell away and transforms into a richer, more real piano sound as I went nearer to the living room, and more and more natural sounds were introduced as the melody repeats. I was staggered to see my mom playing the piano. It was so exquisite that I didn’t even notice I was just looking at her for who knows how many minutes it went by. She looked so beautiful and passionate.

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