The first clear memory I have is Bach, Prelude number one of the forty-eight. Her fingers were so gentle, but I was new and stiff. Before that, there is only stretching, banging, twisting, noise, noise, noise. None of it hurt. It was all simply chaos, then Bach.
The moment when she began to coax the music out of me was like an explosion of clarity, exquisite grace, emotion. I surrendered utterly. We became singular, in flow. She only played that solitary Prelude, but I knew then that my calling was to be in service of expression.
I was moved to a perfect room. My sound sang out with pristine clarity and often, very often, there was such applause. The best night of my life was when a young man journeyed with me through all forty-eight. He had spent many hours practicing and by that special night we were totally in harmony.
There was so much else, so many other friends. Beethoven Sonatas, Chopin Nocturnes and my goodness, Grieg.
I was well looked after. Like clockwork, someone with tools came to tighten, caress, sooth. Then back to the glorious work.
Later, I was moved to this place. There is a lot of dust. People don’t come very often but sometimes I am still put to use. There has never been Bach here.
Bits of me have flaked off over the years and everything is slowly loosening. I can’t remember the last time someone came to offer tender care. Every now and then, a child will sit down to dabble. They either flail on me with great delight at the treacherous clanging, or paw gently before making a face and wandering off. Even that is happening less and less.
If I had one wish, it would be to be able to move each of my eighty-eight myself. I have such transcendent music me.
At least in the omnipresent silence, I retain my memory, so I can listen to the ghost of Bach.