the most beautiful tune

it sat there in the basement for as long as i can remember. It was there so long I sometimes forgot what it was. It was big, deep brown and boxy, with chipped keys and dents all over. I always loved it, but I didn’t really know why. When I was ten, my mom suggested I take my fascination to organized lessons, and I obliged. Soon enough, I was taking lessons from the woman down the street once a week. I didn’t practice much; I could only get myself to when I enjoyed what I was hearing, which wasn’t often. I loved to sit there, playing the keys. Not making much of anything but still found it more interesting anyway. There was one key, a higher note that was horribly out of tune. You had to press it really hard to get any sound at all, but when you did it was shrill and wobbly, and I decided I would miss it if it were gone.

I was never entirely sure where it came from. I knew that it had been on my mom’s side of the family for years, and years. I am sure if I had asked her she would have been able to tell me. I just never really did. Or I’ve just forgotten. My grandma; my Yaya, (because that’s what she was) always said it had the greatest sound. That its never had to be re-tuned and sounded deeper and resonated louder than anything else of its kind.I don’t know how much of this is fact, but I believed her when she said I would never find another one that carried the most beautiful tune. I always remembered that.

The lady down the street quit teaching. And I quit learning. But still I sat there, playing the keys, hearing the sound. I used to hold the top open; rest it on my head while I played; watched the sound. It was never comfortable, but the watching the insides made me feel like I was feeling it more. I’d always create this temporary dent on the middle of my head from where the cover rested.

It stood there for so long; ten years it stood there. Offering everything it was made for plus a space to hide behind while I spied on my brother and his girlfriend on New Years Eve. Ten years. I never really knew why I was so drawn to it. I just was. Ten years; likely nothing compared to the life it lived before my time. Standing somewhere else. So long before I was even an inkling of a thought in anybody’s head. After the ten years, they told me we were moving. We couldn’t take it with us. I was so sad, but I wasn’t sure why. I just knew I wanted it with me. I remembered what my Yaya said. I just knew no one would love it as much as I did. It was important to her, too.

My mom called relatives, distant relatives. Finally she found a distant cousin that she never knew. She told me that she told her it was important that it stay in the family. That it had a good home. They picked it up the next week. The day the movers came, I sat on the bench. I looked through it; what once held music books and theory lessons, now became the bearer of the trinkets of my life. Photos and drawings. No one would look there; no one ever sat there except for me. I lifted up the front; played the keys one last time. Tried to memorize the sound. The sound I would never hear again. The most beautiful tune.
I carved my name into the inside of the front cover. I can’t remember if I wrote my whole name, or my initials, but it was probably my whole name. Middle name too. I’m not really sure why. I just remember thinking that one day I would see it again, and because my name was carved into it, there would be no question that it was mine, and because it was little kid writing, they’d see that it was mine from a long time ago. Mostly though, I think I romanticized the idea of someone finding my name and it being this huge mystery as to who I was. Years, decades later. I was so fascinated by history in that way. Finding little clues of past lives around. I once found a date and signature of a carpenter on our railing in the house. “This railing was hand made by…” was written with purple pencil crayon under the varnish. It felt like finding a treasure. I wanted to create something like that. I wondered if the carpenter wrote it with that in mind, too.

I looked at the dents, the chipped keys. Played the wobbly note. I hoped the new owners wouldn’t fix it, but I hoped they would love it enough to want to. I missed it already.

It has been seven years since I’ve seen it last. The older I get the more it comes to my mind, the more it comes clearer why I was so drawn to it. I wonder if my name has been seen on the inside. I wonder if they know that it carries the most beautiful tune.

Recently I asked my mom about it. She seemed surprised by my sudden interest but appeared happy to remember. It belonged to my great-great aunt, who was a great-great pianist. Eventually it was passed down to my mom once she bought herself a baby grand. She said she always regretted giving it up because it just carried the most beautiful tune.