Chopin said, “I tell my piano they things I used to tell you.” It’s not that I disagree. It’s just that I left my piano in Brooklyn and I have long forgotten how to dial your number. So there has been this thunderstorm every afternoon for the past 6 days. The blue smear of paint around the clouds has a leak of grey to it. The hole in the canvas becomes too much to hold and suddenly the entirety of the sky is covered. And then the rain falls. I have found myself whispering between the thunder and the strike of the lightening. I try to the secret in between the time it takes for the light to travel. Even if the flash interrupts, it voids the entire message so I’ve been keeping them short. Starting out simple, I murmured, “It’s been a while.” Then, “Did you feel cold at the 6am wake up call?” “Have you noticed the way the breeze is more dense lately?” “I found a book of mustaches that I’m sure you would love but I didn’t buy it.” “I think of you so-”
It’s better this way. With the cutoff. With the secrets. With the not delivering the whole message. With the six hour drive between us. With the I’ve forgotten how to pronounce how to pronounce the letters of your name. With the I think of you so often and I’ll keep my whispers for the thunderstorms.
I have found a friend to let me borrow her piano for the next 2 months. For now I am retraining my fingers to not fall into the dial of your voice. To tune these songs to the key of my range. To force them to learn a new song even when all they want to play are the notes that bring you home to me. The thunder has drowned out all those chords. For now I play music you’ve never heard, perfecting the sound of the rain.