Piano Lessons

At eight, each of us, in turn,

began taking piano lessons, weekly visits

to Mrs. Gould, to sit at her grand piano,

lacquered black, the bench raised high

for our young bodies, nervous and scared,

and fingers arched, we played our scales

and lessons, grandly played, simple songs

progressing, progressively harder, mistake-ridden,

a melee of wronged notes, stumbling, bumbling

under uncertain fingers reaching, stretching,

so at eight, my turn, I gave up my dancing shoes,

another requirement of childhood, for the ivory keys

of Mrs. Gould’s piano, grand and lacquered black,

weekly visits and daily practice

at the living room spinet, my mother’s piano,

blonde and old, a cracked veneer, and weakly tuned,

my fingers arched, obediently playing my scales,

quarter notes up and down, one-handed, two-handed,

faster and faster, trying to coordinate

my stubby fingers on the piano keys, touching them,

tentative, playing over and over a melody less melodic,

arrhythmic, stopping and starting, “again,”

her voice echoing in my head, “again,”

bringing notes and tones together to match the music

spread out before me, the beginners book, daily working it,

working to master what my mother wanted for us,

but in time, the tempos speeded up, as I rushed through

each piece, each exercise, the mistakes uncorrected,

left unfixed, just to get done, get finished, finish

my two years of lessons, and give it up,

my obligation fulfilled, all my mother required,

that we had played, had tried, no prodigy among us,

no dancers or concert pianists, just kids

subject to the times, our parents’ dreams and wishes,

their desires for us, a refinement readying us

for today, refined adults because we had played,

had done what we had to do, what was expected,

each of us, in turn, at eight.