I love my piano. Those sturdy keys beckon me always. Eighty-eight keys that hold a universe, an infinite number of musical possibilities. 

I pull the curtains back and morning light pours into the sunroom. Dust motes rise and fall slowly, they seem to spin in anticipation. I sit down, adjusting myself into position. I commence with minor scales. C minor is first. It’s a solemn sound. A mysterious sound. An ominous and disconsolate sound. Memories surge. 

It wasn’t always this way. The self-discipline and love for this instrument wasn’t always with me. Long-ago jam sessions have faded into a distant memory. I wonder whatever happened to those guys, the loquacious drummer, and the beloved hirsute guitarist? Do they recall me, ever taciturn, on bass? I break from this nostalgic daydream and make note of this older individual seated at his piano. The sunroom mirror to my right shows I’m not the scrawny kid from all those years ago. Wisdom for added girth, I tell myself. 

A few years ago, the memory of youthful jam sessions on guitar and bass came back to me. I wanted to return to music and the piano was an impulse buy, a chance to start anew. 

In the first few days, my fingers touched the keys nervously. Joy surged as I gained coordination and my seemingly impossible ambidextrous wishes were fulfilled. Musical scores were bought and treasured, though all scores faced the possibility of an early death due to frustration. And yet a few scores I conquered. Even some musical compositions of my own emerged.

  And now to this, a few years later. I amble into the sunroom, pull the curtains back. Sunlight pours in. The metronome set, like an ever-watching timekeeper. I take a breath, reach over the keys and off I go into the universe.