It’s the moment when I’m passing through the living room
where my brother plays the same measures of
Brubeck,
the same each time I walk through
like he only knows a line or two
or needs to keep practicing the same
12 measures
til he gets it right,
but really
this is how he keeps a secret
since no one will ask
whatcha playing?
since it’s always the same
every time he’s home.
The maybe day
when he stops me
and asks me to sit with him on the piano bench.
me,
surprised he knows my name.
I’ve been called on stage
from the audience.
No heart and soul.
Instead he says go ahead.
I’ll play something and you
just improvise.
Play anything. I’ll join you.
I am not an improviser.
I am in Level 4 music theory.
I practice scales.
I know Bach Invention 1 in C
without the trills.
Good. That’s good,
he encourages me,
knowing I will leave soon
with one leg already over the side of the bench.
Sounds nothing like the Schumann I’m learning
(my teacher has scrawled the pages with reminders
about counting
and jabbed it with her pencil
in places I needed to practice
but never did).
Sounds like our own piece
no one will ever ask to hear.
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