virginia and julia
clairuswoodsii
Her fingers aren’t as nimble as they once were, and she can’t always see the notes written on the page. She never forgets a melody, though, so she always muddles through somehow. Her granddaughter won’t notice. “You know a lot of notes, Grandma.” And it’s true, she does.
When the final note has curled up catlike and gone to sleep, the child will sit up straight and say “Now, listen to me, Grandma, listen to me!” For maybe ninety seconds she’ll rap and tap her little fingers on the tiny keys in a discordant imitation of her grandmother. “I know a lot of notes too, Grandma.” Later there will be cookies, fresh-baked and served on a plate, with a glass of milk.
She knows that in a few years her granddaughter will gradually stop visiting. She knows there will be a lot of discordant notes to come, none of which will be played on the tiny piano. But she also knows in years to come, if she lives that long, they will grow close again and one day her granddaughter will visit and they’ll bake cookies together and serve them on a plate.
Her fingers aren’t as nimble but her mind still is, and if she can’t always see the notes on the page she can still see what’s important.
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