Five years ago, my family moved off of our farm, and we had an auction. There was no way we could fit four acres worth off stuff into my grandparents’ one-bedroom basement. It was hard to let all of those things go, because it felt like we were losing a chunk of our lives every time the auctioneer said “Sold!” When we were done, all that was left were scraps of junk that nobody else wanted. There were some things that were harder to let go of than others. For my brother, it was a bike. My mom still mourns the loss of her spare fabric scraps. For me, it was the piano.

The piano was a hand-me-down, used for years by some unknown great-aunt’s brother’s second cousin thrice removed. The black keys were brown and the white keys were yellow and chipped. The whole thing was so out of tune that it made my teacher cringe when I played it.

I started lessons when I was about seven years old. I certainly wasn’t any sort of musical prodigy, but I was good. By the time I was nine I could play well enough to entertain at dinner parties and Christmas in a way that didn’t require adults to sit around, smile, and “Aww” every time I hit a wrong note.

My first teacher was strict, but thinking about it now, I realize I loved her. She taught wonderfully and with care. I still use her lessons every time I play. When we moved to the farm (suddenly and on my parents’ whim), I had to stop taking lessons at our old house because there was no way Mrs. Miller would drive twenty minutes every day just for my sake. So every Monday night I took lessons in town at a church near my old house. Mrs. Miller was there every night anyway to teach a hand bell choir, and if I arrived early enough I got to watch them practice. I thought it was beautiful music, but it didn’t sound real. Today I admire and appreciate hand bells as musical instruments, but I don’t particularly like them. It was mostly jealousy, I think.

What was real was the piano. The church’s old backup piano wasn’t fancy, of course, but compared to mine it was wonderful. Just like mine, it was an upright, and just like mine it had seen way too many years go by without use, but it was in tune! Still, I couldn’t bring myself to enjoy that piano. It was too…unfriendly. Unfamiliar.

Sitting down at that piano in the back room of a church I never saw the chapel of made me feel like an intruder in a stranger’s house. I came in and left through the back door only, hoping God wouldn’t see me barge in.

The lessons themselves weren’t that great. I was eleven then, and piano didn’t seem “cool”. But I did love playing, and it was nice to have an excuse to get out of that house, if only once a week.

Yeah, my step-dad gave my mom a good enough excuse, and we all left that house for good. The divorce meant not only goodbye house and goodbye dogs, but goodbye Fremont and goodbye piano lessons as well. If Mrs. Miller wouldn’t drive twenty minutes to Cedar Bluffs, I knew she wouldn’t drive fifty to Lincoln.

So we sold the house, the bike, the fabric, and the piano, along with various things that seemed unnecessary at the time but would be treasures if we could have them back now.

On the day of the auction, I wandered around the rows of furniture and knick-knacks thinking about all of the memories I had associated with them that I would probably forget as soon as the items were gone. I was young enough then that although I pretended to understand all of what was going on, I really didn’t know a thing. I viewed the auction as a sort of malicious garage sale that was ripping apart life as I knew it.

I remember in particular when we sold off the old farm equipment. By the time of the auction, we had been moving back and forth between the farm and our temporary apartment in Lincoln, so the farm didn’t feel like much of a permanent home anymore. The pastures were empty not just of mundane things, but also of the spirit that used to be there in the old days. The barn was dark and hollow, and I was afraid to go inside. Everything was cold--except for the house, that is, which was warm but empty of everything that made it home—food, furniture, and family.

I remember when they wheeled the piano out onto the front porch to display it for the hungry crowd. All I could think about was that I should have played just one more song before I lost it forever. Luckily, someone in the crowd asked for a demonstration to test the sound of the instrument. I was quickly motioned forward by the agitated auctioneer. His eyes belied the toothy grin on his face, indicating that he was less than happy to have his schedule interrupted.

As I made my way up to the porch that had become a stage, I tried to decide which piece to play. I picked one I had worked very hard on just recently for a recital. I had mastered the art of playing it so fast that my fingers actually became a blur. “Vivace” by Ferdinando Carulli was true to its name, and I quickly hammered out the notes, in perfect time and succession. My instinct was to repeat it immediately as I had been taught, but the auctioneer grabbed my shoulder with his disgusting fat fingers and yelled loudly that I had done a wonderful job, and didn’t the piano have a marvelous sound?

That was how I said goodbye to the best teacher I ever had—my piano. As I walked away from it for the final time, I knew that I would see other pianos and have other chances to play in the future, but none of that mattered anymore, because now there was something missing.

The things you lose don’t just disappear into thin air. Someone takes them.

Hmm, I liked your untitled one better, but this is still good. There was just something about the other one though, that just made it feel. . .more complete, I guess. You get what I mean. Nice though. :good:

The untitled one was realy something....but this one , that last line, it was like woah O_o so truuuuuue T______T

wow, i love it. and the last line was like, wow. please keep writing :)