Why I Wanted A Piano in the House

I hear the piano being played as I put the vegetables in the oven to roast.  It is rough and loud, it is my eldest.  She likes to take the lid off the piano and hit the keys to watch the mechanisms move inside.  After a few minutes the piano goes quiet.  I put the chicken into the oven, wash and dry my hands and head up the stairs.  The piano starts up again, only this time it is a soft, melodic sound.
When I get into the lounge room, I see my youngest bent over the keyboard, her eyes are closed, and as she plays each key she brings her ear as close as she can to her hands, listening intently to each sound.  It is beautiful to watch.  This is why I wanted a piano in the house.

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You really can make your childhood dreams come true, at any age.

‘What instrument would you like to learn?’ asks my Dad. I am 12 years old, maybe, and my younger brother has just started learning the guitar. I’m jealous. Looking back, I guess I’d made my feelings pretty clear and am pretty sure there may even have been some spectacular tantrums or possibly even one of my world famous ‘cats bum’ sulks (a humiliatingly accurate description provided thoughtfully by my step dad who has clearly witnessed more than his fair share).

‘The piano,’ I say. I loved the romance of the piano. The long, sleek lines and the monochromatic mystery of the keys. Keys that when played in a certain way could produce music so light and ethereal it lifted my heart carried if somewhere light and free and wonderful. I wanted to make music like that.
‘No,’ my father told me, in no uncertain terms, ‘it’s too expensive. Pick something else.’

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