The Crickets Sang

Playing the piano is very emotional, Reader. Sometimes I do it instead of crying and feel the same sort of relief afterwards. Sometimes I play until my fingers are numb and nearly limp from the exhaustion and demand of the anger that must come out somewhere and feel vindicated from the actual physical action. Sometimes I play to listen to the very songs that others spoke onto pages of notes and to hear their rages or sobs.

Tonight I opened up the living room window for the fresh air (and, I guess, to tell the world what needed to be said) and let Chopin orate - again and again - until I felt he had said all that he ever had to say through one waltz (Opus 69, no.2). I played it repeatedly from beginning to end like carousel music or a music box that did not need rewinding. Then I uncluttered the worn, dog-eared sheet music in front of me and presented a clean copy of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. After dizzying rounds of Chopin's waltz this music was a still pond at night.

And the crickets sang.

The sun had set while I was practicing and I did not realize until I was lost in Beethoven's laments and resolutions that the crickets were the only noise left besides my playing. When I had started out there were lawn mowers buzzing down the street, children squealing with excitement while playing outside, cars and motorcycles roaming past. People walked by and their conversation hovered and mixed with the notes, and they continued on as children went inside and outdoor activities were traded in on this, a school night. And at some point the crickets woke up after the warm sun left and started to carry on the way that crickets do every night, every where. But I will tell you, Reader, they are a moving companion to Beethoven.