If I had only played the piano

I had considered this as the title to my auto biography, and assuming I live long enough to write one, it may still be. But for now, you get the short story chapter version.........

One of my first memories as a child was living in Elgin Illinois, in a house I thought was huge. The last time I saw the house, a few years ago, which is 35-40 years later, it is anyting but huge.

When you first entered the house, there was a small screened in porch, big enough for 2 people and a milkbox. For those of you too young to know what a milkbox is, try google, it is a wonderful thing.

The next room was the dining room, big enough for a table to sit 6, and maybe a small buffet.
Beyond that was the kitchen. Small but funtional. In the back of the kitchen was the stairs to the basement. A story in itself, for a later time.

To the left of the dining room was, well, another dining room with the master bedroom off of that. Next was the living room. And across to the far wall was the other enterance, and the stairs leading up to the other 3 bedrooms, and bathroom.

Now add to this, my grandmother, her husband (fiance?) My mother and I, 3 of my school age aunts, my uncle, and my great-grandfather. Nine of us in total, but being the baby of the bunch, it never seemed crowded to me.

Back to the diningroom ajacent the living room. Other than the dining table, the other more spectacular item in the room was a piano. I was way too young to be interested in it, and I cannot really recall hearing it being played much. What I do remember was being repeatedly told to not touch it. It smudged easily, and With 9 people in the house, a can of Pledge was most likely a luxury. But then again, I was 3 or 4 years old.

From 2nd to 7th grade we lived in Carpentersville, and again there was a piano in hour home. And my Mother played it. And again, I was repeated told to not touch it. It smudged easily, and at the age I was then, it was also very breakable I am sure.

When we moved again to the house my Mother still lives in, there again, was a piano that my Mother played. By this time I had allowed its presence to blur into the other things in and about the house that my brain had to diminished to mere "background".

Years after I had moved out of the house, out of state, and far from the thoughts of that piano, Mom sold it. When she told me I was sad.

Sad that I wouldn't hear her play it again, only realizing how much I had enjoyed it, and how I probably never told her that.

Sad that a piece of my life's "background" was now gone.

But mostly sad, when I realized I had never learned to play it. Never known the joy and fulfilment which I am certain comes with that ability.

But what helps that sadness subside, is when I close my eyes and think back, and I can see and hear Mom sitting at the piano. And there is no room or reason for sadness there.

Thanks Mom