Grandpa would sit me next to him in the parlour and play songs on an upright piano, singing into a microphone he’d hooked up to an old reel-to-reel recorder. He’d learned to play songs by ear; Honky Tonk and The Blues, Country and Western. Sometimes, he’d take requests and I’d always choose “Frankie and Johnnie” because it had a dramatic story to it. His voice was hollow like a big empty room and I’d watch his Adam’s apple travel up and down his long throat while he stretched himself skyward, his eyes closed, his hands spread over the keyboard, his fingers fanned out, wavering on the worn ivories.
After Grandpa died, his piano, his recorder, his tapes all vanished in the cleanup, gone to Goodwill by someone who had never sat on the bench or been the audience to his private concerts. But I know those sounds and I am the recording. I have a room inside me for an old upright, and a reel to reel.
I tap my foot on my hardwood floor, head back, eyes closed. I hear his foot on the pedals, the pop of the microphone. The hum that is me.
Oh, Lordy, how they did love.