The grand piano sat overdressed with its shiny black gown and ivory embellishments, as the centerpiece of the run down music shop. Dust hung in the air, off of the old guitars hanging on the walls, stuck between pages of yellowing sheet music, but none of it dared to touch the piano sitting in the center. Children's sticky fingers stomped across the keys like rainboots in a puddle, more seasoned fingers danced across with a sort of swan like grace; the piano welcomed all lonely, virtuoso hearts in its day.
Margaret couldn’t help but feel as if she were trespassing, running her fingers over the old, dust laden merchandise. Her mother had told her about this place, and about how a young, friendly woman had used to give her lessons on the big piano in the center of the shop. The woman had always wanted to be a music teacher, so when her husband had opened up a music shop, she had asked if she could give lessons on the piano there. Completely smitten, her husband had happily agreed. There were pictures of her mother, pre-teens with bouncy red hair and freckles smiling inside of this music shop, though now the old polaroid photographs were yellowing around the edges.
When she had run out of things to brush her fingers over, trying to relive what her mother would have felt far before having children was even a thought, she stopped at the piano. This was the piano that had started it all. She wished she could meet the woman who had meant so much to her mother, to thank her, but the shop had been abandoned years ago. Contradicting opinions bounced around in her head like a game of pinball, should she leave the piano alone, or play? She sat down on the smooth, ebony bench, and gingerly tapped on one of the keys, then a few, and before she knew it, she was playing.
Her fingers danced across the keys with a clumsy grace, like a drunken ballerina. Her mother had perfected this dance, starting here, and even as the tears rolled down her cheeks and onto the keys, she continued to play. This was her mother’s favorite song to play. It was a simple one, nothing like the music she would perform on stage, but nonetheless she played it almost every night when she had free time. She had never explained to her daughter just why the song was so important to her, but her daughter had never asked. She just accepted that the simple melody of “Nocturne” had always been a calming tune.
The music slowed to a stop, and with shaking hands, she stood up to leave, her auburn hair gleaming fiery red in the beams of sunlight sneaking through the dusty windows. It wasn’t curly like her mother’s, she had got her father’s flat, smooth hair, and it wasn’t orangey-red like her mother’s, but more of a muted cinnamon. Nonetheless, she liked to imagine she looked like her mother.
“Heather?” a withered, old voice said from behind a long empty shelf. “Is that you?” It had been so long since she had heard someone say her mother’s name without that air of grief. Instead of stating “Heather”, like any other name, it was always preceded by a sigh, and followed by a “she was such a strong, young, talented woman” or “she was taken from this world so soon, too soon”. Honestly, it was refreshing. the old man hobbled out from behind the shelf and she could get a better look at him. Late seventies, wiry silver hair brushed hastily over in what could technically classify as a combover, a misbuttoned navy blue shirt, khakis, and slippers. He leaned on his cane as if he needed it for emotional support as well as physical.
“No sir, I’m sorry. I’m Margaret, Heather’s daughter.” she said, uncomfortably coming to the realization that she probably didn’t belong here.
“Ah, I’m sorry Margaret, I haven’t seen you since you were just a little kid, two years old and bouncing on your mother’s lap. Do you remember me?”
Her discomfort quickly switched from that of a trespasser being caught, to that of not recognizing a family member at a Christmas party. “I’m sorry sir, I’m afraid not.” she smiled apologetically. “I haven’t been two in quite a while, after all.”
He laughed, hard enough that Margaret was afraid the poor old man could crumble away, but the laughs very soon shifted to coughs, about which he apologized profusely. “Ah, I’m sorry. I’m Mr. Howard, I used to own this shop. Well, I guess I still do, but I used to run it, you see.” He smiled, but his eyes were filled with sadness and longing for something long gone. “Are you aware that your mother took lessons here?” he asked.
“Yes, she would tell me every day how thankful she was of this place, and of her teacher. If you own the place, her teacher must have been your wife?” Margaret questioned.
“Yes, Harriet. She had a way with the kids. She was able to get even the roughest, rowdiest crowd of teenagers in here to listen to her on the weekends. She never took a day off, no matter how sick she was,” He laughed fondly at the memory. “Stubborn girl.”
She smiled, his fond rememberings reminding her of the stories her mother used to tell of those nights. “You speak of your wife in the past tense,” she noted, softly. “I’m sorry if this is rude, but is she-”
“Dead?” he interrupted. “Yes, long gone. Cancer, you know? It got her about five years ago,” he finished sadly, but with a solemn smile. “She was a fighter ‘till the end. Oh, she was a stubborn woman. We always joked about how she would argue with the reaper when he came to take her, until he just gave up and she lived forever, but I suppose life has a way of reminding you that you really are powerless against it.” he sighed.
“I’m so sorry, my mother would have been sad to hear it, she adored her.” I attempted to comfort.
“Oh, no need to worry about it, young one,” he said, forcing a smile. “You didn’t know. It was a long time coming, anyhow. We both had time to prepare.”
Margaret couldn’t help but feel jealous of the man. Of course, he had lost a loved one, but at least he knew it was coming. Her mother’s car crash hit the family, her fans, hell, the whole music community, as quickly and as violently as the drunk driver had hit her. She shuttered at the memory of passing by the accident on the way home from work, seeing the new, midnight black BMW crumpled at the side of the road, not recognizing it as her mother’s car until half a mile past. She had turned around at a McDonald’s, and got back to the gruesome scene just in time to see them zipping her mother’s bent, broken body into a body bag.
She didn’t remember much of the rest of the day. Whether it be because of shock, or the fact that she thoroughly abused the liquor cabinet, she wasn’t sure. The day after, however, she was awakened with a hangover that rivaled that of the day after her twenty first birthday, and was expected at work. Out of sick days, she couldn’t miss the day. She could hardly make out the shotgun questions blasted at her as soon as she walked in the door. “What happened exactly?”, “Will you be pressing charges?”, “How is the family coping?”. She didn’t answer any of them. She ignored the voices, unplugged the ringing phone, and almost grabbed the near empty bottle again.
“Margaret?” Mr. Howard said, voice laced with concern. “You spaced out dear, what is it that you’re thinking about?”
She snapped out of it, eyes glistening with tears that had yet to break away. “Oh, nothing. I’m sorry I bothered you, I should probably be going now.” She turned to leave, low heels clicking on the old tile floor.
“Wait,” the old man chided. “You did break in here. At least tell me what you were doing.”
Margaret looked over her shoulder, smiling faintly and wiping away her tears. “Do you follow the news, Mr. Howard?” she asked softly. He shook his head.
“I’m afraid not,” The wrinkles on his face scrunched together in concern. “Why do you ask?” Though his words feigned ignorance, the knot in his stomach knew something had happened to her mother, his star student.
“Well,” she started, voice catching and trembling. “I’m afraid to inform you that she died last week.” That word still felt foreign to her, died. It was so harsh, but ‘passed on’ sounded too peaceful, too calm. ‘Passed on’ was used for expected, long time coming deaths. ‘Died’ seemed far more fitting. “I have her ashes with me, I thought this place was abandoned, I was going to sprinkle some of them in the piano.”
The old man’s face fell, but he maintained his sorrowful smile. “Of course. She always did say she put her heart and soul into her music.”
Margaret stepped slowly towards the instrument and pulled the small vial of ashes out of her purse. The piano was as black as her mother’s BMW, as black as her funeral, and now, served as her coffin.