04.25.2008 - 12:51 p.m.

My old boss stops by around noon, while he waits for one of this year�s capstone project students to meet him for a celebratory lunch. He leans back into my guest chair, his gangly length filling the space on that side of my desk.

We have one of those peculiarly personal discussions that can only happen when you�ve known someone over a decade, when that person has watched you become an adult in all the ways that matter. We talk about marriage, finances, jobhunting, and old pets. He tells me what he�s thinking of going for in his convocation speech, something about humor, but that means more than a laugh. He remarks that I seem like the sort of person who would get it, because I know how to laugh at the things life does to a person. He asks, after a pause, if that�s really true, or if it�s just when I�m around him. I chuckle and tell him there�s a range.

Later, I�m in the Arts and Letters building, and I find myself drawn to the little recital room with the grand piano. I�ve found him here fairly often, over the years, practicing the blues in a break between conferences and committee meetings. Though, the term �practicing� is one from my classical training; you don�t practice the blues, you channel them. Sometimes, they channel you.

There�s nobody in the room at the moment, only empty chairs and that piano, but I�m suddenly consumed by the desire for Chopin, something grand in a minor key, something that perhaps isn�t that difficult as a piece, but that would make the world tremble along with the chords.

I stand next to the instrument, the tips of my fingers brushing over the ivory, and I pick out an old melody with one hand. My heart fills in the rest.

-stonebridge

previous | next