I am now the proud owner of my late Grandmother’s piano. It arrived from Alberta last week on a huge moving truck, wrapped and protected in a big blue tarp. Oh, the stories it could tell…
My maternal Grandma got this piano when she was just a young girl living on the Alberta prairie. Our best guess is that it was built in the 1920’s/30’s, meaning it’s nearly ninety years old. The fact that it now belongs to me overwhelms me, and it’s a gift I do not take lightly. I’ve known I would be the eventual recipient of this piano since my Grandma died in 1998, but to have this cherished piece of my family’s history in my dining room seems surreal.
It’s more than a piano.
It’s the huge sacrifices my Grandma’s immigrant family had to make to purchase it.
It’s the countless hours of practicing and playing she did to become proficient.
It’s the love of piano music that she passed on to her daughters.
It’s my childhood memories of sitting on the piano bench next to her, hearing her play, and eventually joining her in duets.
It’s my Grandpa sitting in the red armchair beside the piano, listening to the music with a peaceful smile on his face.
It’s the smell of lefse cooling and buns baking.
It’s the sound of my cousins laughing and the doorbell ringing.
It’s the ten years of piano lessons I took growing up, and the opportunity to resurrect my ability to play.
It’s the multitude of decisions and choices that were made to lead the path of my life from Alberta to Ontario.
It’s a chance for my children to be able to touch a piece of a woman they never met, but who would’ve been so happy to meet them.
It’s the familiarity of home; a connection to my past and a bridge to my future.
It’s the ability for me to look at that piano every day and feel my Grandma’s love.