I have included the piece that inspired this piece of writing. I am playing it on the piano, so naturally, it is far from perfect. However, it is my interpretation of the piece and its ideas. Sorry for any background noise; it was played at a public recital. I hope you enjoy Autumn Leaves: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j2XM2s288Jc

I hit three octaves of E. Carefully, with accent. F sharp. G. Then the notes ripple; four beats pass, and then the notes start to kick in and they get faster; there’s more of them and I’m going…going, until I hold. And then it’s for real, and I’m lost in the music. The piano plinks, the notes connect, the world holds still. I hold my breath.

The notes slur in long phrases, each note carefully picked to emulate the falling Autumn Leaves, each dynamic carefully chosen to convey the scene, each accent strategically placed. It doesn’t sound like notes, or piano keys, or phrases. It sounds like music.

I get lost every time I play the piano. It takes me out of this imperfect world and into one where everything is perfect for five minutes. It reminds me that the ultimate goal of working hard is success. It calms me down when I’m upset, when I’m tired, when I’m stressed. It lets me be proud of something.

I’ve plucked, banged, rippled for twelve years. Each time I play, I go somewhere different. I go to a forest with red and orange and yellow leaves falling around me. I go onstage with the Wicked Witch of the West and Glinda and sing along to my favorite musical. I flashback to the stadium concert where I sang so loudly with pure joy while watching the most famous Taylor sing about blank spaces and Style. I remember the first time I heard some of my favorite songs from the redhead who thought out loud and remembered his Castle on the Hill. I dream I’m performing classical music in a big concert hall, all Für Elise.

I’m halfway through the song, pushing to keep going even though my bad back is killing me. All I want to do is relax, but my body pushes straight up and my fingers keep flying. They dance over the keys, pausing only for a second before moving on. My foot pushes and releases, feeling the cold metal under my foot where I know the pedal is. Out of the corner of my eye I see the bright red that is my beautiful piano.

I’ve played so many pieces. I’ve played jazz, listening to Ella Fitzgerald’s voice in my head as she sings along. I’ve played pop, singing loudly to Adele and Coldplay and playing along to the real recordings. I’ve played classical, pretending to be Mozart, Chopin, Beethoven. I’ve played Schwartz’s famous musical, singing as though I really am Defying Gravity. I’ve played duets, handing over a portion of the keys for someone else to use. I’ve played quartets, listening carefully to the magic eight hands can make. I’ve accompanied singers as they pour their hearts out, carefully making music.

I’ve reached the final measures. I’m slowing, carefully hitting each chord. I wait patiently for the perfect time. I carefully think about my next choice. I stare at the music, wishing it to be longer. I get softer, lighter, until I just graze the keys. The last seven notes played as one ripple end the piece, but I hold on until I let go. I don’t ever want to let go of this freedom.