I was 8 years old when I first
placed my fingers on the
luminous white ivory keys of
a piano. Next to me, a nun
touched each finger into place.
A year later, I wore a white
lace dress in my first piano
recital. Every day for two
years, I took lessons from that
nun. At the end of two years, I
left my birthland for the
diaspora. A few years into my
teens, when my parents could
afford it, they brought an
upright piano into the
house—I never played it.
A few years after college
graduation when I was barely
making my rent, my parents
sent me that piano as the only
piano I could afford—I never
played it. Decades later, my
husband ordered a grand
piano for our living room. My
fingers strolled through its
keys to make my husband
happy but, swiftly, I came
never to play it again. But I do
cherish this figurine of cats on
a piano which I discovered
within my mom’s things after
she died. Its innocence
reminds me of when, once, I
was so happy playing the
piano that I quickly became
proficient enough in a year to
present music during a recital
at the local university
auditorium. People dressed up
in their finest clothes to see
me and hear me. People put
on their “Sunday Best” to see
me—
to see me
to listen to me, to applaud me
with so much generosity it’s
almost unbearable today to recall
their wide smiles and clapping
hands because I was Home.
Eileen R. Tabios
