You played my heart, but it still writes for you

Dear Wien Hall Piano,

I know we haven’t talked much, but my estrogen-fueled brain demanded I write you a declaration of love. In order for you to understand just what you mean to me, I must go back in time and provide some context: I first heard the song “Piano Man” as a slightly disheveled melody tumbling from my friend’s fingertips. She belted out Billy Joel’s lyrics with the gravely grace of an old man and laughed. Although I didn’t listen carefully to the words, a single, stunning piano interlude traced itself into my memory.

The next time I heard “Piano Man” was sweating over my laundry on Wien Hall’s second floor, which overlooks the main lounge. Hearing the sparkling, subtle yearning of its piano interlude squeezed my heart into a bittersweet tangle. I felt as though I were reliving old memories just as they melted and vanished down a clear stream.

Some students play you to impress, dashing through achingly layered melodies with bravura. They sprint towards the piano bench, then at their end of their piece, spring off with a dazzling smile as applause smatters to life. Others play out of necessity, because tickling beauty from white keys is how they cope with the pains of life and school. Shy-eyed, they hide their faces behind the music stand and duck their way off the bench, but a smile still graces their face if someone remembers to say “thank you.” I am shy myself. Alone, I have only come to you once, and even then I only played a single note. Yet releasing a bright sound into the universe, letting a tiny creature swim free, siphoned off a half-step of worry from my chest.

My dear Piano, I know I am a foolish girl who is musically void and totally out of her depth. But I must confess that I love how you give each of us the opportunity to become a piano man, to observe the concrete world and confess our dog-eared dreams by your keys. We remember to forget our exams and our countless, tattered anxieties; we fall into a focused art. Or, as spectators, we merge into a half-drunken crowd shoving our glasses onto the bar so we can share another round of your reverie. To borrow a line from “Piano Man,” you return to us the careless satisfaction of our childhood, back when we “wore a younger man’s clothes.”

Yours truly,

A distant admirer

Wien Hall Piano via Author