My Mother's Fingers

My mother gave me long, skinny, piano playing fingers to get tangled in my hair and for rings to slip off of.

When I was little, I would climb up on the player piano, its opaque shine nearly blinding my young, fascinated eyes. I’d glide my tiny hands over the ivory keys, feeling their perfect smoothness under my rough, playground marked hands.

I would listen for the sound of my mother traipsing through the house. If I timed it just right I could jab the player piano button right as she edged into the hallway and by the time she walked past the living room door I was bouncing my fingers around in the air above the keys as they played themselves. I would try to hide my satisfied giggles as she would walk by, stop and trudge backwards to see her little, six year old plunking out “Beethoven’s 5^th” with a look of pure professionalism plastered on her face. She would stay there for the entire song until I finished in a dramatic flourish then bust out in applause as I hopped off the bench and bowed my head all the way to the floor. She would call me her “little Mozart” and then escort me to the kitchen for some ice cream.

One day the player piano broke halfway through my song. I paused there, my fingers still in the air, and stared down at my friends that had abandoned me during the climax of the song. I heard my mother let out a slight gasp from the door as she waited for me to make my next move.

I turned to her, fingers hanging and my face holding extreme poise.

“I seem to have forgotten the rest of the song, Mother”. Mother sounded like something piano players would call their mommas.

Without hesitation, she glided across the room, swept me up into her arms, sat herself on the bench and plopped me right down on her lap. She motioned for me to put my hands on top of hers and then we played the rest of the song together, right where the player piano had cut off. We bowed to each other after then shared the rest of the ice cream with two spoons.

The player piano was magically fixed the next week but I never “played” it again. Instead I would wait on the piano bench for my mother to walk past the door. I‘d call out to her that I couldn’t remember the song anymore and needed her help again. My mother and I played the piano together every day for a year until my sister was born.

After that, I’d wait until my mother lay down for a nap to sneak my baby sister out of her crib. I’d carry her into the piano room and situate her on my lap at the piano. I’d guide her baby hands over the keys and help her use her chubby fingers to plunk out mismatched chords that created a song that sounded to me just like the glorious tune my mother and I had played together.