It was a sunny hot summer Saturday, around noon, when I stumbled upon a garage sale. I had been aimlessly driving through town after town soul-searching. Looking for deeper meaning and purpose for myself. I needed new goals; highschool graduation was closing in, and the reality of responsibility was becoming ever clearer to me. Stress, sadness, and fear were the constant rotating emotions at the time. I must have passed about a dozen others that day; but what drew me into stop at this one particular garage sale was the sight of a tall, old, player piano. The wood was a deep mahogany color, that was smooth to the touch, and the ivory keys were pearly white with minimal cracks or chips. As I lifted the old bench seat to peer inside, the wonderfully distinct scent of an old book, that hadn’t been read in years, filled my nostrils and brought a smile to my lips. I went through some of the old scrolls that were left behind and forgotten. Miraculously, as if a calling from the past was trying to reach me… I found the scroll for “Piano Man” by Billy Joel. As I rolled my thumb around the scroll feeling every divot pass under it, an old sweet memory from my childhood had come back to visit me.
Growing up, I lived with my Mother, Grandparents, two Uncles, and one Aunt. Every Saturday night my family would gather for dinner at my Great Grandmothers house. I was her name sake and I called her “Gram”. She lived right next-door to us then with my Great Aunt, Uncle, and his girlfriend. Gram was an 89-year-old Irish woman; so for dinner, we would always eat some variation of meat and potatoes. Once dinner was finished, we would move into the living room, and start playing my families beloved player piano. We all would sing along with the tunes and dance and smile and laugh.
Those were the days when my family was at peace, and enjoying each others company. It was a celebration of life together. Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” was a favorite that was always played more than once. When the night was coming down and winding to an end, the closing tune was always “American Pie” by Don Mclean. The irony of this is upsettingly incredible, looking back now.
I was little, maybe five or six at least. I tried to sing along, but mostly I sat at that piano pumping my little legs and trying to keep the rhythm. Pretending to be the artist behind the music that caused so much joy for everyone. I would look up and see their exuberant smiling faces singing every absent word. I didn’t fully understand where they got the words, nor could I really hear them clearly because each one had their own dramatic rendition as they belted the song together. The nights were overflowing with life and energy. Its funny, I don’t remember ever leaving…I don’t remember those nights ending at all.
As the years passed, I got older. My Uncles moved out of the house, both moving an hour away in opposite directions to begin their careers and start families. I don’t see them too much anymore. My Great Aunt, Gram, Uncle, and his girlfriend moved away after a trivial family argument that seemed too large to mend at the time.
A few months later, we got a call. Gram was sick and not doing well. Everyone in the family immediately went to the hospital, so we could say our last goodbye’s to her. When I went in to see her I couldn’t help but to notice the labyrinth that had grown across her face, each line telling its own story. I worked up the courage, and stiffened my lip to tell her that I loved her. I gave her a hug, and walked back into the cold tiled, hard white wallpapered room to wait with everyone else as they each took their turns going in to speak with her privately. That tragic day was the last day my family was together the way they used to be almost everyday for each other. Little did I know at the time; but when she left, she took the music with her.
The wake came, the wake went. The funeral came, the funeral went. They sold a bunch of stuff that meaninglessly occupied space in the house at a yard sale. One of these things was the piano, and the scrolls with it. What was once such a strongly rooted cherished family bond had been severed and discarded as quickly as one would discard an old used tissue; there were no hesitations or second glances.
More years passed, my Aunt moved out, my Mom was working two jobs, and my Grandfather worked around the clock, leaving the house quieter than ever. It was just me and my Grandmother occupying it for most of the time. I was sixteen then, working at the local bagel shop in town. One day, in the early afternoon, while it was unusually slow, an old familiar face came though the door. Age had done its tricks on her, but I instantly recognized my Great Aunt. She had come in on lunch break and did not have much time to catch up. When she realized who was taking her order she stared in amazement. Cupping my face with her soft, sheer, delicately wrinkled hands she said, “My dear, you have grown up so beautifully.” Still holding and turning my face with her rose petal fingertips, examining me as if I was the latest discovery in modern times. Her eyes grew distant looking into mine for a moment, then she softly said “you look just like your Mother and Grandmother when they were your age…..exactly how old are you now?” She kept holding my face tenderly. “I am sixteen now” I said smiling, not truly knowing what exactly to say. I just stood in disbelief looking back at her…it was as though she was trying to absorb a part of my soul…searching for some sign of the little girl she used to know. Maybe it was a bit of each? She had apparently gone to this restaurant at the same time every work day for lunch for the previous three years. Meaning we had just missed each other, or just never noticed one another for over a year. After I finished her order, I walked around the counter to give her a hug. I told her that I had missed her and loved her, unsure if I would have that opportunity to do so again. She wrote her phone number on a pad of paper with the intention of having sinner together sometime soon. I had lost that paper during the same shift I had seen her. I never saw her again in that restaurant, or anywhere else for that matter.
I was then brought back to the summer afternoon at the garage sale, by a light tap on the shoulder, from a friendly looking older gentleman. He was a sweet short portly man who had fine white hair, small framed glasses, and a button up. He classically wore his pants above his bellybutton, where they were held in place by a thin belt. He had the most genuine smile that I have ever seen on a person. He asked if I was interested in buying the piano. I simply smiled to myself holding the ironic scroll “Piano Man”, and asked him if he wouldn’t mind playing that song one time for me. He laughed a bit and said that he would love to. He put the scroll in place and let the piano roll out each note. We both sat in silence mid tune he said to me, “It’s amazing, isn’t it? It almost looks like a ghost is playing the song, doesn’t it?”
Catherine Orozco 