F#

You’ve rustled through the long-forgotten score, fingertips brushing over the ink, reminiscing that sweet melody.

You set it down on the stand, fingers gliding over the ivory keys for the first time in three years.

It’s been so long; you just want to play. To feel, the rush, of performing.

You sight read the piece, and as the notes rise from your fingers, the memories start falling like rain when they meet.

But something is wrong. You know the piece will end; but it’s not that.

You’ve played this piece many times before, but there’s one thing that you almost faintly remember— but don’t.

You go about this haze, as emotions pour out of you; like a performer, like an actor/

The melody progresses, as you bask in the notes until it solidly hits you—

F#.

You’ve missed all of the F#s in the entire piece, and that’s how you’ve always played it.

Missing a crucial note. You never knew the piece.

You never knew the ending.

And that’s how you’ve always stopped. Mid-piece.

Your hands glide off the keyboard abruptly. The last page falls off.

You pick it up, uniting it with the other pages, in that familiar rustle as you file it back into its hiding place.

Some other time, some other day.

Some other person.

=== Lucy. 10.17.2013